


Beauty and the Beasts

by Teland



Category: DCU (Comics), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adult Fairy Tales, Alternate Universe - Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Angela Carter, Background Relationships, Biting, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fairy Tales, Families of Choice, Femdom, First Time, Frottage, Happy Ending, Knotting, LGBTQ Character of Color, Light BDSM, M/M, Magic, Mentions of incest, Oral Sex, POV Character of Color, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Religious Content, Rimming, Romance, Telepathy, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 07:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 53,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12164004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Aramis is not provincial.Aramis *knows* the ways of the *world*!It is not —It is not so *strange* for the child of a whore, for a child raised in a *brothel* —It is not so strange for a child like that to be... a chip, in a game of chance.





	1. The Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Houndstar (green_animation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_animation/gifts), [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is. 
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: I think there's exactly one spoiler in here, and it's about Aramis's background. Takes place in an AU-ized pre- *and* post-series. Sort of. 
> 
> Author's Note: Have I mentioned, yet, that I plan to write *hrair* werewolf stories in this fandom? This one came about because I was reading Angela Carter's _The Tiger's Bride_ (many thanks to the Welsh Whoredog for providing the book), and I loved it as I love all sorts of adult fairy tales, but I couldn't help thinking that it could've used some explicit porn. *laughs*
> 
> I am me. Enter Spice and the Whoredog to help me hammer a rough outline for this one out. <3
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much love and adoration and appreciation to Pixie, Melly, Spice, Houndstar, Aleksa, Liz, and, of course, my Jack, for hand-holding, encouragement, helpful suggestions, helpful noises, and all the things that get me through dry spells. Pixie also stepped in with help on Rom customs.

Julio Ortiz — Jules on this side of the border — prides himself on many different skills and abilities. In his own estimation, he is a scholar, a gentleman, and a sort of lay guide and tender of the spirits of all he chooses to bless with his presence — no. 

No, that is not so. 

By Aramis's observations — 

By Aramis's necessarily close — the man has (wisely) not let Aramis out of his *sight* since they have begun their travels together — observations, Julio Ortiz considers himself a Master of everything he sets his mind to. 

If he has not mastered some skill or another, if he has not charmed, if he has not *succeeded*? Then he has clearly not put his whole mind to the matter — no. 

Then the task or person is clearly *unworthy* of his whole mind. 

Yes. That is how he thinks. 

That is how he lives. 

That is how he has *spent* his life, and the fact that no greater intellect has crushed him to powder and *grease* before now — 

The fact that the man had the power and money to threaten Aramis's home, Aramis's *mother* — 

Aramis does not snarl. 

The fact that Julio is too busy to notice, too busy to *strike* him in this moment — 

Well. That is not the point. 

Control is the point. 

Mother has told him far more than once that the world must *earn* his passion — 

*Julio* has not so much as earned an *honorific*, has not earned the acknowledgment that he had *fathered* Aramis, has not earned the right to have Aramis think of himself by the name Julio had *given* him. 

He has *not* earned his passion. 

He — 

And, somewhere behind them in Paris — 

Aramis would *like* to believe that Mother is laughing at him now, laughing at her tricky boy, who has *never* been able to restrain *any* of his passions — 

No, no. 

He will have control. 

*Enough* control to be silent in this smoky little tavern room, to do nothing but *watch* Julio make a fool of himself. 

Again. 

This time... 

Well. 

This time, there will be consequences, Aramis thinks. 

He leans, as casually as he can, against a wall — the last beating had made sitting far too uncomfortable when not strictly necessary — and watches Julio study the playing cards in his hand. Julio is affecting what he almost certainly believes is cool disdain, but the fact of the matter is that he has lost *all* of the money they were traveling with, and has now begun gambling with promissory notes. 

For his *properties*. 

This... 

From *Aramis's* observations, this would be the point when Julio would, usually, make some sort of scene. Puff himself up like the strutting cock he is — all but demanding the farmwife's strangling hands! — and call off the games. 

He might not *directly* accuse his opponent of cheating — or. 

No. 

No. Julio may be playing in the rather dilapidated tavern next to the sole inn the small village they're traveling through calls its own, but the man he is playing *against*... is gentry. 

The de Tréville name is well-known in Paris, and, given how well the hopelessly provincial Julio is behaving himself, throughout the rest of the French countryside, as well. They, along with the de la Fères, are two of the families known to be closest to *Henri* — and the rumours say that this was so for the *Treville* family even before Henri's mysterious elite Kingsmen — which include Laurent d'Achille de la Fère and Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville — had foiled a vast, multi-pronged attack on Henri's life. 

There was mystery to that, as well. 

It was said, by many, that the bodies of those traitorous nobles had been... savaged. 

It was said, by many, that the bodies of *all* who fell to the Kingsmen were savaged. 

Les Bêtes d'Henri. 

And *this* man — this Porthos du Vallon de Tréville — is one of them. 

He wears Henri's colours on his brassard, and his uniform is not very sturdy. It is more *showy* than anything else, and his manners are those of a courtier, despite the dark scar over his eye, despite his massive size, despite his comfort in this low place. 

This had fueled a degree of contempt in Aramis — he likes *true* soldiers. Good, *hard* men!

But...

But *this* is the man who is punishing Julio for *his* contempt. For his *arrogance*. 

There is de Tréville property not far from here, and the coincidence of their parties traveling through the same village at the same time — ah! Julio has just lost the two indentured servants that were traveling with them — and helping him keep Aramis *watched*. 

Julio has begun to sweat like a *pig* — 

Treville is sipping his wine so *coolly* — 

Aramis cannot, *cannot* repress a smile — 

And Treville meets his eyes from across the room, the way he simply had not at any point before this one. His gaze is a studying one — a *dissecting* one. There is a mind behind those large, dark eyes, and it is, in this moment, seeking to know Aramis's own. 

Which... Aramis raises an eyebrow, and does *not* stop smiling. Please, M'sieu. Take him for *everything* he is *worth*. 

Treville narrows his eyes *hotly* — his eyes almost seem to *gleam*! — and then *Julio* turns. 

Too fast — Aramis has not wiped his expression quickly enough — 

Julio *snarls* and turns back to Treville. "One *last* game, if you please," he says, in an impression of politesse. 

"If you wish," Treville says, in his low, rumbling voice. 

And then. 

And then — 

Aramis is not provincial. 

Aramis *knows* the ways of the *world*!

It is not — 

It is not so *strange* for the child of a whore, for a child raised in a *brothel* — 

It is not so strange for a child like that to be... a chip, in a game of chance. 

A piece of *property*. 

A...

Julio has not valued him cheaply: Aramis is being gambled against *everything* Julio has lost tonight, in addition to certain properties belonging to the de Tréville family. 

Aramis — 

Julio could grow quite wealthy tonight. 

Treville had agreed to the wager with a silent nod, and begun shuffling the cards. 

He has not met Aramis's eyes again. He. 

He has not lost a single one of the games tonight. 

Whether or not he wins *this* one, Aramis will not be allowed to escape. 

Will not be...

This, then, is Julio Ortiz's last act of spite against Aramis. They have known each other for only a few weeks, but have already learned *loathing*. If Julio wins, Aramis will be beaten for his moment of cheering Julio's misfortune — and there will perhaps be a body for the villagers to bury. 

If Treville wins...

Well, who is to say what les Bêtes do with their whores? 

Not even Mother had known. 

Perhaps... it will be quick. 

He can hope for that. 

He turns away and breathes. 

After a small, shapeless eternity, Julio gives a shuddering sigh. "Ah, so he is yours now. As an honourable man, I must warn you that he was raised in a brothel, and *not* as a kitchen boy." Julio says this with a leering smile in his voice, the smile of a *street* procurer. 

"And yet he is your son," Treville says quietly. 

"He isn't —" 

"Don't lie to me. We of the Kingsmen have ways of knowing such things." 

Aramis blinks — 

"I... yes, Monsieur, he is my son. A dalliance of my youth. After I had educated myself and become a man of property, I returned to claim —" 

"I don't require your history, Monsieur," Treville says, and stands. "My agents will contact you about the business between us —" 

"I —" 

"Do not interrupt me again," Treville says, and seems to loom over the entirety of the *world*, seems to *hulk*. 

"I apologize," Julio says, and he is sweating again, licking his lips — 

Aramis cannot help but take *pleasure* in this — 

"It is only —" 

"You wish to negotiate. You wish to leverage your child's presumed talents as a whore against your catastrophic losses at this table." 

"I —" 

"Yes or no." 

"Yes —" 

"The answer is no. You wagered your child's freedom and you lost. He is coming with me tonight," Treville says. "Now. Get out of my sight." 

For a moment, Julio remains seated, eyes wide with the realization of, perhaps, what his life has become. 

And then Treville lowers one hand to the hilt of his rapier, and Julio scrambles to his feet and leaves without another word. 

He does not look at Aramis. 

He does not — 

He leaves nothing but the stink of his fear. 

Treville snorts air out of his nose and... slumps, as though he is exhausted or sick. 

He seems not to care that Aramis can see him doing it... but Aramis looks away just the same. 

"I know you haven't eaten for hours, lad... I." Treville swallows audibly and moves close. 

Aramis refuses to let himself stiffen. 

"You haven't sat down, either. You're hurt," Treville says, and his low voice is much softer, the rumble of it more gentle. It would be good to comfort a skittish horse. 

It does little to comfort Aramis. "I am well, sir." 

"Please don't lie to me. I..." Treville reaches for his face — and then drops his hand. "I won't hurt you. Ever." 

Many people say such things to their property. 

"You don't believe me. I — I probably wouldn't believe me, either," Treville says, and laughs for the first time in Aramis's presence. It's ruefully quiet, but still rich and honest and — 

Aramis looks up. 

"Oh... there you are," Treville says, and smiles at him warmly. "Let me heal you so you can rest a little while before we — but. Do you ride?" 

Aramis blinks. "Heal...? I ride, yes, but — you are a healer?"

Treville's smile turns somewhat wicked. "What do you know about Kingsmen, lad?"

"That you are the elite guard of the King himself, and are only used for the most politically sensitive missions." 

This time, the laugh is behind those dark eyes, and — 

"Why are you laughing at me, sir?" 

"Because I don't *think* that 'polite and gentle' is your natural state of being, lad." 

Aramis narrows his eyes — stops that — 

Treville laughs *hard* — 

Just for *that* — 

And it is... 

So...

No. "If you wish to converse with *me*, as opposed to the *image* I *present*, then my name is *Aramis*, not 'lad'." 

Treville stops laughing and grins wide, broad, thrilled — "Is it, then?" And then he offers his arm to clasp! "Porthos." 

Aramis blinks — 

Several *times* — *no*. He returns the *gesture*. 

"Sir —" 

"*Porthos*. We're alone, mm?" 

And that... "What will you need of your whore?" 

"Uh." 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

Treville — *Porthos* coughs into his fist and tugs his other arm back. "Let's go back to talking about what you know about the King's Beasts." 

Aramis blushes — 

Porthos winks — "It's all right, you know. We've all heard *amazingly* terrible things about who we supposedly are and what we can supposedly do." 

"And what do you *do* to the people who say these things?" 

"Correct them — or not. It can be useful to have the rumours floating around. *Sometimes*, anyway," he says, and smiles ruefully again. "But...?" 

"You are... they say you turn into demons when someone speaks words of true scripture to you. They say you are witches. They say you *are* beasts. They say you can fly. They say you impregnate sleeping virgins and bugger boys who misbehave —" 

Porthos *coughs* — "Right, well, *some* of that's true." 

Aramis stares. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. The scarred one does not lift as high. 

"Some..." 

"Mm?" 

Aramis frowns deeply. 

"You could *ask*..." 

"*Which* part is true?" 

"We're all werewolves. *Some* of us — like me — are witches —" 

"I!" 

"Some of us *also* enjoy buggering boys, and there are people who'd say that any buggery is sin, so I suppose that counts as misbehaviour." And Porthos raises his eyebrows again. 

Aramis stares — 

And stares — 

And closes his eyes for a moment — and breathes.

"Do that, please. That's good." 

Aramis *opens* his eyes and stares *more*, continuing to breathe. 

Porthos never looks away from his eyes. 

Porthos — looks human. From the deeply attractive curls on his head, to his smooth brown skin, to his broad African nose — it is well-known that his mother is a woman of colour, and did *not* come from the gentry — to his soft lips. 

He is handsome. 

He is frankly *beautiful*. He — 

There are no claws on his hands. 

There can *be* no paws inside those boots. 

He *could* be covered in fur under his clothing, but — 

No. 

"What are your weaknesses?"

Porthos coughs again.

Aramis crosses his arms over his chest and looks at him. 

"That's your question?" 

"My *mother* taught me to protect myself." 

Porthos smiles softly. "I like *her* —" 

"Then answer my *question*." 

"Right you are: Silver." 

"That is all?" 

Porthos inclines his head. "Brute force and lots of it can cause difficulties, of course. Magic-users who know *how* to use their magic — and we'll teach you how to use yours better —" 

"My." But Aramis is blushing again. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows — 

Flares his nostrils — 

And nods. "It's been... a knowledge deep inside for you. You haven't really had someone to talk to about it. Have you." 

"I..." Aramis blushes harder and looks down — no.

He is his *mother's* son. 

And — "I talked to my *mother*. She — it was. It was not unknown among her people," Aramis says, and cannot fight his blush — 

Cannot — 

He does not know how these people, these *nobles* will *react* — 

Porthos leans in slightly. "You're frightened..." 

No — "You will *ask* me how I feel!" 

Porthos blinks — 

Draws *back* — 

"I apologize," he says, and licks his lips. "Please tell me what's wrong." 

Oh. But — "Why should I do this thing." 

"I'd like to make it better." 

"Why." 

"Because I'd like your life with me — with *us* — to be as happy as possible, Aramis," Porthos says, and his voice is low, soft, *earnest*, *gentle* — 

"I — I am not a *horse* to be *gentled* —" 

"But you've had a lot of terrible things happen — look, your father gambled you away not long after beating you badly enough to make you *bleed* in several places. I can *smell* it." 

"I." 

"And... you don't have to tell me what happened to your mother, but —" 

"He *stole* me from her!" 

"Right, that..." And Porthos winces. "You were going to run. That's why you were smiling. He'd gambled away the men who were in charge of watching you, and you knew you could get *away* from him." 

"*Yes*." 

"Back... to your mother in Paris?" 

"*Yes*!" 

Porthos licks his lips — 

Flares his nostrils — 

Reaches for Aramis's *face* —- but, once again, he does not touch before he drops his hand. 

"Porthos —" 

"I... won't keep you prisoner." 

That. Aramis frowns. 

"You don't believe me. You —" Porthos winces. "I *won't* keep you prisoner. I'll take you back to Paris *myself* —" 

"I do *not* need an *escort*." 

Porthos winces more deeply. 

"Why does this *hurt* you?" 

Porthos *shudders* — 

His hands *shake* —

And he turns away. "I. Would like for you to meet my family." 

"What...?" 

"My. My parents —" 

"*Why*?" 

"My brother and sisters —" 

"Why do you —" 

"I can't answer that question." 

Aramis growls. 

Porthos's *ears* twitch like a dog's, despite looking entirely human — no. 

"*Porthos*." 

Porthos sighs and turns back to him. "Aramis. I... if you give me... a chance..." And Porthos stares into his eyes — 

Porthos's eyes are wide and *full* — 

Porthos's eyes are *hungry* — 

"A chance for *what*?" 

"A chance to meet my family. A chance to see... how we live —" 

"That is *not* what you want to say!" 

Porthos flares his nostrils again — and nods, once. "No, it isn't. But I can't — there's a geas on me, Aramis. I'm sorry — wait. Do you know what that means?" 

Aramis stares at Porthos and studies and — "That was... true." 

"Yes." 

"There is something keeping you from answering my questions like this." 

"Yes." 

"There — you have more weaknesses than you said!" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "Most of the time, it doesn't feel like a weakness. Most of the time... I don't even think of it." 

"What *is* — but you cannot tell me." 

"No, Aramis, I can't," Porthos says. "But... I would like for you to come home with me. For... a time." 

"To meet your family. To see your home. To... tour the grounds with you?" 

Porthos swallows like a *boy* — "If you'd like." 

Aramis narrows his eyes — and then remembers the geas. "You would like for me to spend time with you. Yes?"

Porthos's eyes flare a *wild*, *hot* green — 

He flares his nostrils *again* — 

"If you'd like," he says, and, this time, the rumble of his voice is more of a growl. 

This should by no means be reassuring! But...

("*Tricky* boy. If a person cannot or will not be honest with you? They are not *worth* you.") 

*Yes*, Mother, *always*. 

This — this *werewolf* is being honest. 

This werewolf is — "You are being as honest as you *can* be. Yes?" 

Porthos nods once, eyes *blazing*.

"This is *good*," Aramis says. "I will go with you. I will meet your family. I will see how you live and spend time with you." 

"For... a little while?" 

Aramis looks at Porthos and considers.

Porthos flares his nostrils again and again! But... 

"I must heal before I journey to Paris," he says, at last. 

"I. Would like to heal you right now." 

Oh — "I... had forgotten," Aramis says, and blushes. 

Porthos blushes, as well, and nods. 

"What must you do?" 

"Only have your permission — and have your permission to touch your hand. It won't hurt." 

"No?" 

"No," Porthos says. "Other kinds of healing — they can be painful. Like my Uncle Jason's, who's a blood-mage twisted up with a few other things. But my blood-family, my *pack*? We're all earth-mages. All we have to do is open ourselves to the All-Mother while we're touching the person we mean to heal. She does the healing through us." 

Aramis blinks and blinks and — "I... have heard of the All-Mother..." 

Porthos grins for the first time in — somehow, it feels like much too long. "You have? *What* have you heard?" 

"That she is the goddess of the entire *earth* and every plant and animal which lives on it!" 

"That's right as far it goes," Porthos says, and he is still smiling — 

"Tell me the rest!" 

"She's the *All*-Mother. *Every* living being on the planet — except for one — is Her child — including you —" 

"I!" 

"She has an easier time communicating with the earth-mages, non-human animals, and plants than She does with Her other children, but you're still Hers." 

"*Porthos*." 

"Mm?"

"I am not a religious person!" 

"And?" 

"I." 

Porthos grins and winks. "You might've guessed that Kingsmen get along a sight better with non-religious people than we do with religious people, just in general...?" 

"I..." 

"And I don't need you to worship my goddess. You might want to speak to Her sometime — you're a mage, so you *can* speak to Her, and She likes answering questions —" 

"What." 

This time, Porthos's grin is wicked again. "Earth-mages *commune* with the All-Mother, Aramis. Things get *unpleasant* when we *don't*." 

Oh. "Unpleasant *how*?" 

"Does *your* mother respond well to you ignoring it when she calls you home?" 

Aramis blanches. 

Porthos nods once. "So there you are —" 

"Porthos, do you honestly believe your goddess would *wish* to speak with me?"

Porthos's grins fades, and what's left is one of his hungry looks. A serious and deep and *focused* — "Yes." 

"*Why*?" 

Porthos shakes his head slowly. 

Aramis snarls —

"Let me heal you. Please," Porthos says, and his voice is low and apologetic. 

"This is very *frustrating*, Porthos!" 

"I know, Aramis. I apologize —" 

"Do you mean to seduce me with *mystery*?"

Porthos smiles ruefully again. "Would it work?" 

Aramis blinks and draws back — no. "You have not said what you wish in a whore." 

"Oh — fuck — I don't want you to be my *whore*, Aramis —" 

"But you *desire* me, and that is why you used your skill at cards to take me from — my father." 

Porthos flares his nostrils and smiles. "You knew I was cheating. *I* know you don't think of that man that way." 

"I — I. Did not expect you to admit it," Aramis says, and blushes.

"I won't lie to you." 

"You just won't answer my — but. You are under a geas." Aramis frowns. "Are all Kingsmen cursed?" 

"No. Just my pack." 

"*Why* are you cursed?"

"Because the mage who cursed us wasn't able to bless us." 

"What — what does that *mean*?" 

But Porthos doesn't answer right away. Not even to say he *can't* answer. 

He turns toward the door to the tavern's main room and lifts his *nose* — 

"Porthos —" 

"It's dawn, you're bleeding again, your father is stumbling drunk in this direction, and I don't want you to see what I'd like to do to him. Let me heal you and take you away from here."

Aramis *grunts* — 

"Please," Porthos says, and *gleams* down at him. 

"Porthos... *tell* me what you wish to do to — Julio." 

Porthos searches him for a moment — and then nods. "I want to hamstring him. Just one of his legs. I want to watch him *try* to get away from me, limping and weeping and begging and bleeding. When he finally falls? I'll slash his throat with my claws." 

"And. Eat him?" 

"No. Kingsmen restrict our maneating habits, and Julio is stringy meat." 

Aramis swallows. 

And swallows. 

And holds out his bare hand. "Please heal me." 

Porthos inhales sharply. "Thank you," he says, and takes Aramis's hand in his own so lightly, so *gently* — 

And then Aramis is filled with warmth, with comfort, with — 

For some reason, he feels *safe*, and *comforted* — 

He feels *eased* — 

He feels — 

"You're wondering why you feel so good *emotionally* after I said those things to you." 

"Yes!" 

"That's the All-Mother, Aramis. If you were an earth-mage, you'd be *reeling* with Her absolute love and acceptance right now." 

Aramis blinks and blinks — no. "She loves other mages less?" 

Porthos smiles softly. "She loves *all* Her children equally as near as I can tell," he says, and releases Aramis's hand. "From the pillbugs on the ground to the whales in the ocean. But... the way She explained it to me?" 

"Please tell me!" 

"Come with me?" 

"Yes!" 

Porthos — rumbles. Like a great *dog* — wolf. 

*Wolf*. 

He rests his hand lightly at the base of Aramis's spine and leads them outside into the day. There are two tall, beautiful black horses waiting for them outside the tavern, and they are obviously healthy and well-loved, but Aramis cannot keep himself from *checking*, just to be sure. 

Horses are the most noble of creatures —

You can learn much about a man by how he treats his horses — 

And he feels Porthos's gaze on him the whole *time*, but he says nothing, he does not try to *stop* Aramis — 

And Aramis does not have to pay *any* attention to the commotion down the street — 

The familiar, angry voice — 

It is nothing to do with him. 

Nothing — 

And Porthos joins him by the smaller, leaner black, rubbing her nose and rumbling softly. "Her name is Lisle. She's one of my father's horses."

"Oh, yes? Your father prefers less-spirited mounts?" 

Porthos laughs well for this. "Not at *all*. Lisle's who he rides when he has to spend a lot of time around easily-spooked gentry. I brought her with me because the witch who prophesied that I'd meet someone in this village that I'd *want* to bring back to the manor tonight —" 

"What." 

"Well, she's one of my mother's guardians. She has prophecies that come true all the time —" 

"I." 

"She could *not* say whether or not you'd be an experienced rider, though, and some of those paths are tricky. So, it was a choice between Lisle or Gabrielle — my sister Jeanette's horse that she *never* rides —" 

"Oh, no! Horses must be exercised!"

Porthos grins at him fondly, warmly — "Our stableboys take Gabi out *all* the time. She's the sweetest girl we have. Daddy insisted that you take *his* horse, though." 

Aramis opens his mouth — closes it. "'Why' is a question you cannot answer." 

Porthos smiles ruefully. 

Aramis nods and turns to the larger black with an eyebrow up. 

"Léon. He takes me everywhere," Porthos says with pride and open affection. When he rubs *Léon's* nose, Léon lips his fingers — "Oh, is that so, mate? Well, I *do* happen to have apricots. For *both* of you." And Porthos pulls the dried fruit out of his trouser pocket, handing some to Aramis — 

"Thank you!" And Aramis turns back to Lisle, who noses and lips at him immediately. 

The street is quiet again. 

Aramis does not look. 

He does not. 

He —

He strokes Lisle, and purrs and coos to her in the blend of French and Latin that had always worked on the horses at the hostler's across from Madame Margaud's — 

She rests her great head on his shoulder and — Aramis can breathe. 

He can breathe. 

"I'm taking you riding every single day," Porthos rumbles. 

"I —" 

"Twice a day." 

"Porthos — " 

"Thrice on Sundays — we've a lot of horses, thanks to Daddy and Uncle Jason." 

"Ohh..." 

Porthos grins at him. "Ready to ride? You're going to need to rest in a couple of hours." 

"What? I do not feel tired in the slightest! I feel as healthy as I *ever* have!" 

"That's the healing, Aramis. It's deceptive. You'll pass right out *on* Lisle if we don't get you home by the time your body demands rest." 

And that... "Because I am not an earth-mage?" 

Porthos's gaze darkens. "Because you were hurt badly." 

"Oh." He is not thinking of that. 

He — 

He mounts Lisle in an easy, smooth motion — 

She holds steady and firm — 

And Porthos smiles at him again, smiles in *approval*, and pulls an extra pair of gloves for him out of a trouser pocket. 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

"Better to protect those hands, Aramis." 

"I — these gloves are not yours." 

"No. They're Uncle Jason's — he's right in the middle of all of us, size-wise." 

"You were being cautious." 

"That I was," Porthos says, and mounts his Léon. "I usually am." And he immediately urges Léon into a canter down the street. 

Away from where the commotion had been. 

It — 

Oh — "Porthos, what of — the servants you won?" 

"They'll need to be trained in countless ways, and it may turn out that they're unsuited for life among Kingsmen." 

"I —" 

"In which case they'll be sent on their way with *more* than enough money to keep them out of the clutches of men like your father," Porthos says, and smiles at him again. 

Aramis nods and breathes again. "Thank you for this. They were not unkind to me." 

"I could tell by the way you moved around them. By the way you *smelled* around them." 

"Oh, yes?" 

"Mm. I was... paying a lot of attention to that," Porthos says, and frowns, very clearly at himself. He shakes his head once. "But to elaborate on your earlier question, servants from our manor will be sent down to the village to see how well my new servants take to the training, and if it's worth dragging them all the way up there. There's a routine for this in place. You don't have to worry about them being abused, or treated unfairly." 

"You would be able to *smell* nefarious activity on your servants." 

"That's right. But really, if you treat a person with trust, honour, care, and respect, that's *generally* what you can expect in return." 

Aramis *looks* at Porthos. 

Porthos laughs. "Especially if the whole world knows you can smell them coming backwards and forwards." 

Aramis nods. 

"Your mother must be one of the most formidable women on the *planet*." 

"*One* of the most?" 

Another laugh, bright and wild and — "You're going to meet *my* mum, Aramis. She's not convinced I'm out of short pants, and, frankly, after a five-minute conversation with her, neither am *I*." 

Aramis *coughs* — 

*Looks* at Porthos — 

At the lines that crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he laughs — 

At his lush, full, soft-looking beard — 

At his massive *size*—

He — "How *old* are you?" 

Porthos laughs more — "Thirty-one come July. You'd *think* I'd manage to have gotten out from under Mum's thumb by now, but if Daddy hasn't, yet, we're all doomed. You're... fifteen?" 

"Not for several months," Aramis says, and is not certain why *he* is blushing. "Why do you have no wife?" 

Porthos isn't laughing anymore. 

Porthos is flushed and — 

He is looking only at the road ahead. 

"Should I apologize for that question?" 

"Not at all. I just can't give you a *complete* answer, Aramis. The people in my family have to wait to wed until each of us manages to break the curse." 

"I... oh. And you have not..." Aramis swallows. "I am very sorry for this, Porthos —" 

"Shh, no." 

"You will not take my sympathy?" 

"I'll take your kindness, your warmth, your..." Porthos inhales and shivers, then rumbles and pats Léon. "Daddy managed to do it. My little sister *Jeannette* managed to do it. It's possible. And that's what I'm going to hold on to." 

Aramis swallows again and nods. "As you say, Porthos. Please tell me more about the horses." 

Porthos grins broadly. "I can *absolutely* do that."


	2. It's time to CALL YOUR MOTHER.

In the stables — which are sprawling and clean and sweet-smelling with healthy horses and hay and oats — Porthos stops to introduce Aramis to each and every horse he had told Aramis about, including the two wobbly foals who are, as yet, unnamed. 

The elder Treville's two other blacks — Meurtrière and Éventreur — are so highly-spirited and full of *life* that Aramis can almost forget his exhaustion. 

He wants to take them out immediately!

Or... no. He is not so strong a rider as this. 

He wants to *be* that strong a rider, so he *can* take them out, and — 

"Daddy rides them both *every* day he's here. For hours when he can manage it," Porthos says, with a smile in his voice. 

"Good!" And Aramis pulls out his last apricot and feeds it to Éventreur — 

Meurtrière whickers and moves as close as she can — 

Bumps the side of her *stall* to get closer — 

Oh — "Porthos —" 

"Daddy's going to be *heartbroken* that you've made his murder-horses all friendly," Porthos says, and gives him *dates*!

"I... I... what?" And Aramis goes back and forth between spoiling Meurtrière and Éventreur — 

Petting and murmuring — 

He kisses Éventreur's soft nose — 

He tries to repress a yawn — 

He *fails* — 

Porthos laughs at him. "It's time to get you settled, you know..." 

"I — but — you have to tell me what you meant! I cannot make a bad impression —" 

"All right. I'll tell you how not to make a bad impression if you let me lead you out of here." And Porthos raises his eyebrows at him. 

His eyes are *twinkling*. Just as if — 

Aramis *looks* at Porthos. 

*Hard*. 

Porthos licks his lips and coughs. "All right, I'm going to try again..." 

Aramis continues to look at Porthos. 

"I'm going to — right," Porthos says, and coughs again. "Daddy likes his horses to torture him. And everybody else, but that's a secondary desire. He likes *vicious* horses. He likes horses that make people wonder if there's *demonic* blood running through his *and* the horses' veins —" 

"I." 

"Mm?" 

"Does he not know how to *speak* to horses?" 

Porthos smiles wryly. "Aramis, I don't think there's anyone in this house who knows how to talk to horses as well as you do." 

"You know what I mean! I —" But he can't finish that thought before he's yawning again, swaying on his feet — 

His knees feel — 

His vision is so strange, so — 

"Fuck — enough of this," Porthos says, and Aramis is in the *air* — 

"*Porthos* —" 

"We're putting you to *bed*, Aramis." 

"Answer my — my —" And Aramis yawns again — 

*Again* — 

Porthos rumbles and squeezes him — 

Squeezes Aramis as he *carries* him outside into the day, and up to the manor proper — 

"You must —" 

"Shh," Porthos says. "Daddy can gentle and calm *any* animal he wants to gentle. That's part of *our* power, Aramis." 

"Oh!" 

"He just doesn't *like* gentling his horses. He likes meeting them as they are. *Dealing* with them as they are. He likes a *belligerent* horse. He likes belligerent people in general." 

"Is your mother very —" But he's yawning again, yawning over and over, and his eyes are tearing, and Porthos is warm and smells of leather and steel and horses. 

Porthos is saying — something?

Porthos's voice is low, rumbling, so — 

Aramis sleeps. 

And sleeps. 

And — 

And, when he wakes, he is in a vast, soft bed which has been scented with wildflowers and honeysuckle. It. 

Hm. 

Aramis sits up and looks around. There are only a few candles lit in the very, very large bedroom, but the wildflowers are all around. It is... an odd choice, for such a wealthy family. He frowns. 

Or... is it?

Mother has told him of nobility filling their bedrooms with rose petals and the like at all times of the year — Mother's clients among the privileged merchant class have seen much! — but... 

Perhaps, to a *wolf's* sensibilities, simple things would be best?

Aramis lifts the feather-stuffed pillow — he *knows* there are flowers inside it — and finds more honeysuckle. 

He pets the soft petals, and has the most curious urge to rub them along his neck and wrists to perfume himself. 

To...

But. 

Porthos, who *does* desire him — Aramis knows this! — has yet to be clear about *what* he desires. Mother would be disappointed in Aramis — *her* lessons would have had Aramis fully-informed on such things while they were still in the tavern!

Unless...

Aramis frowns and considers the *way* Porthos had avoided Aramis's questions on the matter, and — yes. He had begun speaking of the geas on him quite soon after Aramis's second demand. 

Of the *curse*. 

The curse that had been laid on their whole *family*, and which — somehow — prevents them from marrying until each person breaks the curse *individually* — 

And Porthos's witch-grandmother had *sent* him to that tavern *for* Aramis. 

And Porthos's father had sent Porthos with his own *horse* — 

And Porthos had *cheated*, *manipulated* Julio Ortiz just so he could *win* Aramis — 

And Porthos has gazed at him so hungrily, so openly, so — almost *desperately* at the thought of Aramis spending even a *little* time with him. 

And.

Aramis licks his lips and settles on his heels, thoughts reeling to a heart-pounding *stop*. 

Mother would be *incensed*. 

Aramis should have *known* — 

Should have — but. 

But, no, it cannot be this. Porthos does not want to keep him for a mate or — anything *like* that. He cannot wed a *boy*. No. 

It must be something else. Something more sinister, more dark, more *dangerous*. 

Mother would be — 

And there is only one thing to do: Aramis is *healed*. They have left him his *clothes*. 

He can run, and — somehow — make it back to Paris. 

His woodcraft isn't the best after only a few weeks of Julio's indifferent teaching to learn it, but the servants had been helpful — 

Aramis dresses quickly, *quickly* — 

And then his heart is in his *throat*, because there's a knock on the door. 

But — he should not have expected to escape so quickly. 

He breathes.

He breathes, and he finishes dressing quickly, and he walks to the door, opening it — 

And the woman smiling warmly and *acquisitively* down at him is *tall* — as tall as Mother in her highest slippers — and very dark-skinned, and very beautiful. 

She *must* be Porthos's mother — they share *many* features — and yet her face is barely more lined than his. The smile lines at her mouth cut deep, and she is built *powerfully* for a woman. Her shape is more that of a pear than an hourglass, and she is wearing a brightly-coloured wrap-dress and matching head-scarf instead of anything more French. Her jewelry is a series of thick and almost determinedly plain gold bands and bangles, and she is —

She is rumbling. 

She is a wolf, and Aramis must stop — he bows. "Madame." 

She *stops* rumbling and lifts his face by the chin. "*Precious* boy. Please do not treat me so formally, mm?" There is a lilt to her voice, and laughter under it. 

"I —" 

"*I* would like for you to be comfortable here. And so would *all* of our pack." 

And that — he must not raise their suspicions *or* their hackles. The sooner they believe he feels comfortable, the sooner he can make his *escape*. "Of course, Madame. What would you like for me to call you?" 

She... whuffs out a breath and releases him. And steps back. 

Aramis blinks — 

And Porthos's mother is *frowning* at him. *She* — 

Oh...

"Aramis," she says, low and formally, "you do not have to tell me why you are afraid of me. But I would like for you to tell me why you feel you must lie to me." 

*Shit* — "I..." 

She firms her broad, soft-looking mouth into a hard line — and then shakes her head. "I do not believe my sweet boy would have taken *liberties* with you, but perhaps...?"

Aramis *blinks*. "I — *no* —" 

"No? That is not what is making you so uncomfortable? We are all aware that Porthos is deeply attracted to you —" 

"I!" 

"It would be natural for you to feel pressured —" 

"*Madame*. I was raised in a *brothel*, and raised *well*. I *know* pressure when it is applied to me," Aramis says, and draws himself up. 

Porthos's mother takes a breath — 

Flares her *nostrils* — 

And smiles at him. "I am very glad of this, Aramis. Please, tell me what the problem *is*." 

He can't — "There is no —" 

She looks at him. 

She looks at him just like *Mother*, and suddenly Aramis is hopelessly aware of his mussed hair, and the road dust he didn't wash off before sleeping, and every last flaw in the clothes Julio had given him to wear. 

Not to mention his essential youth, ignorance, and moral turpitude. 

It is a very powerful look. He lets himself wilt as much as he needs to. "Madame... I fear for my life. I... fear for my soul." 

She frowns again, and nods slowly. "You know nothing of werewolves. You... truly, all you know about our pack is that we are *cursed*. Yes?"

And this — Aramis raises an eyebrow. "Did you know more, Madame? When you met Porthos's father?" 

Her expression quirks, and she does... something. 

Something with *power* — 

Power *reaching* for Aramis's *own* power!

"Oh — but Porthos did say that you were all witches," Aramis says, and blushes. "I apologize —" 

"No, precious boy," she says, and releases his power gently. "You have nothing to apologize for." 

"I —" 

"Shh. Come with me, please," she says, and offers her hand.

"What — I —" Aramis flushes. "Madame, please. I would like to know *where*." 

She smiles warmly at him. "I do not think you will trust any of *our* answers about the nature of wolves, precious boy..." 

Aramis flushes harder — "Madame —" 

"My name is *Amina*, precious boy," she says, and offers her hand more vehemently. "And it is time for you to speak with the All-Mother." 

"What — *what*?" 

"I *know* my sweet boy told you about communing with the All-Mother. He is very dutiful!" 

"I — I —" But Aramis has to see. 

Aramis has to *see*!

He grips Amina's hand lightly — 

She squeezes *firmly* —

And suddenly the world all around them is green, and warm — almost hot! — and *close*. 

Aramis is lying on his back — 

Amina is beside him — 

Still holding his *hand* — 

She is *rumbling* again — and turning on her side to face him. 

"I — I — Madame —" 

"*Amina*." 

"*Please*, give me *time*!" 

Amina frowns and nods. "Very well, precious boy. The All-Mother is giving us this time for me to prepare you for what will happen. She is *very* curious and eager to speak to you." 

"But *why*?" 

Amina smiles wryly. "You know I cannot give you a completely honest answer to that question, yes?" 

"I want to know if you are going to *sacrifice* me to the goddess!" 

Amina blinks at him very dimly, very stupidly — 

Her beautiful mouth is nearly a perfect 'o' — 

And then she begins *beating* at the soft earth beneath them and *laughing*. *Cackling*. 

*Hooting* — 

*Braying* — 

Aramis growls. "*Madame*!" 

"Oh —" Amina snickers *hard* — "*Oh*. Oh, precious boy, I apologize, but —" She *coughs*. "No. *No*, we are *not* going to sacrifice — oh, please do ask the All-Mother about that! And tell me what *She* says!" 

"I." 

"But now let me tell you what will happen, mm?" 

Aramis glares at her. 

"Oh, precious boy, you remind me so much of *me* when I was your age!" 

Aramis *blinks* — 

She laughs more, broad and rich like her son, and her eyes are full of light. "Precious *boy*. The All-Mother will *fill* you with Her presence, Her self, Her *energy*. If you were an earth-mage, this would give you a great *deal* of power to work with. Since you are not? You will feel only Her love for you. Her warmth and caring and *adoration*." 

"I..." 

"She is the Mother of *all*, precious boy, and Her love is all-*encompassing*. You will grow aroused for it —" 

"I!" 

"— and She will probably make you spend. But do not worry; you will not muss your clothes. She will take every *drop*." 

"*Madame*!" 

"Mm? Oh. She uses the spend to fertilize other selves. The All-Mother is the *All*-Mother. There are other spheres, precious boy. Other realms. Other *worlds*. Other..." And Amina frowns as she obviously tries to find the words to explain it. 

"Are you saying... that there are other *earths*?" 

"Yes! But they are all realms that belong to *Her*, precious boy. Your spend will go to one of those other spheres —" 

"But *why*?" 

"Because she is the All-*Mother*. She *always* wishes more children. And a child who *chooses* to come speak with Her? Is a *good* choice for making *more* children. More brave and intelligent and inquisitive and *open-minded* children. Do you see?" 

"I... do," Aramis says, and frowns. But — no. It all makes sense. *Disturbing* sense — 

Sense that makes him long to have studied religion along with all the other things he had studied under Mother's watchful eye — 

Perhaps... he will have the opportunity to rectify that. He nods. "I am ready, Madame." 

"*Good*. Lie back, and relax, and, when you are ready, reach for your power." 

He wants to say his power is not always *there* for him — 

He wants to say he doesn't always know *how* to reach for it — but. 

But he *feels* his power, even as he lies back. Feels it warm and ready within him just as if it had never failed him when he'd needed it —

Just as if it never will *again*!

He touches it, holds it, examines it for flaws — 

He feels calmer. He feels *better*. More powerful, more secure, more *safe*!

And... warm. And — cradled? Held? 

Loved — oh. 

*Oh*. Aramis reflexively tries to pull himself back, to *resist*, but the warmth only grows, and he cannot *move* — 

It feels like there are strong, soft hands all *over* him — 

Petting and *stroking* him — 

Filling him with comfort and — 

And *love* — 

Aramis cannot get *away* from how much he is loved, how much he is cared for, appreciated, welcomed, welcomed with *joy* — 

It has been so *long* — 

He has been *gone* — 

She couldn't *see* him properly — 

Aramis blinks, coming back to himself even as he's being rocked and caressed and stroked — 

Under his *clothes* — 

All *over* — 

He is so *hard* — 

And Aramis knows, all through himself, that he was a beautiful seed, and he is growing even more beautiful — 

Knows that he is welcome — 

Knows that *She* is so happy, so *glad* to see him, to have him here where She can know him *properly* — 

Oh — "But *why*?"

And the knowledge comes: Because he is Her child, but one of the children for whom Her vision is slightly occluded. She could see the light of his power growing and growing, but She could see little else. She was lonely for him. 

Aramis blinks — and considers. 

The All-Mother allows him to do this. She strokes him, pets him, loves him — waits for him. 

*Patiently* — 

As if She is only... 

A mother waiting for her beloved child to learn a difficult lesson. 

Aramis licks his lips and shivers, heart pounding. 

The All-Mother strokes him more firmly, more surely — 

The knowledge comes: Many of Her children find such things difficult to accept, at first. 

That — "But they all do *come* to accept them?" 

The knowledge comes with a sigh of pain that makes Aramis's *soul* ache: Not all. Some do not accept until they have died, and must return to Her. 

"Oh... All-Mother..."

She caresses him, and the knowledge comes: She knows he misses his other mother, and She can see that his other mother was good to him, and kind, and loving. His new family will bring his other mother to him as soon as possible —

"I!"

She caresses him again, and her curiosity is *palpable*. 

"I — I want to go to *her*, All-Mother. I want to go *home*." 

The All-Mother shows him Paris then, but not the parts of Paris *he* knows well. This is the Quarter where the gentry make their homes, and the houses are big and neat — 

The streets are wide enough for *carriages* — 

And one house in particular has the All-Mother's focus. There's a man on the doorstep in the livery of a highly-paid servant, though he *moves* like a soldier, and his face is heavily-scarred. 

He bows to the smiling man coming out of the beautifully-appointed stables across the street, and *this* man — this moderately tall, average-sized man with the aquiline nose and deep smile lines — 

The knowledge comes: This is Her son, Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville, who *always* wishes to be known only as Treville.

*This* man, this *Treville*, clasps arms with the servant and moves into the house —

Where Porthos and Amina are just *two* of the members of his pack to greet him. 

The knowledge is clear — this pack spends at least *some* time in Paris. 

He could *be* with Mother and still...

Aramis flushes. "All-Mother, what do they *want* with me? They speak of a geas, a *curse*, but surely —" 

The knowledge comes: The curse is a powerful one, made by a mage whose soul is *merged* with one of Her own children — and *bound* to still more of Her children. The curse was pronounced where Her skin was thin, and Her power abounded. The curse —

"Silences *you*? *Truly*?" 

The knowledge comes: She could answer Aramis's questions easily, but doing so would wound her beloved children in ways She could never countenance. 

Aramis blinks. "Wound... Porthos?" 

The knowledge comes: The entire de Tréville pack would be wounded by the loss that would come. And so would Aramis, himself. 

"I!" 

She caresses him, rocks him, soothes him and holds him — 

Aramis tries to see beyond himself — 

Tries to see *Amina* — 

The All-Mother turns him immediately, and Amina is still right there beside him, only now she's sweating and *writhing* —

Grinning *broadly* — 

Her *tongue* is lolling — 

She is whuffing out grunt after grunt and bucking her *hips* —-

The feel of her power is *immense*, but...

But. 

And, once again, the feel of the All-Mother's curiosity is palpable. 

Aramis will not make her wait. "All-Mother, what do you do with *her* spend? There are some natural philosophers who say that the man's seed *requires* the woman's seed in order for life to quicken!" 

The All-Mother's *amusement* is all through him — 

He shivers — "No? That is not so?" 

The knowledge comes: When many species of Her children mate with each other, the male and the female must come together to do so, and must come together when the female is *ripe*. Humans — and werewolves — are two such species. Others of Her children do not require such things, and *She* is always ripe for the seed of any male. 

"You do not require the seed of women?"

The knowledge comes: She does not, but She takes it just the same, for females of most species have more than they can ever use during their lifetimes, and She fertilizes it with the seed of her favored males. 

Aramis blinks — 

Looks to Amina again — 

She is crooning and *arching* — 

She — 

"And your children *know* this, All-Mother?" 

She caresses him and rocks him, and the knowledge comes: Most of the witches ask, sooner or later. 

"And they do not... protest?" 

The knowledge comes: Some do, but they all come to understand that She needs children. Always. 

"I..." 

She caresses him everywhere —

She lingers on his *genitals* — 

Aramis blushes *deeply* — 

She gives him Her amusement, Her love, Her *encouragement* — 

She runs fingers through his hair and *tugs* — 

"*Oh* — I — All-Mother — *I* —" 

She gives him more curiosity... 

She does not stop caressing his *cock*, his *balls* — 

She is doing it so firmly, so *tightly* — 

She knows what he *likes*!

The knowledge comes: She is his Mother.

Aramis grunts and *bucks* — 

She *squeezes* him — 

He groans and *shakes* — 

She caresses his nipples, pinches them, somehow sucks and nibbles — 

"All-Mother — p-please —" 

She spreads his *legs* — 

He gasps and plants his feet, blushes, bucks again, *again* — 

And then there's pressure at his *hole*, pressure and warmth, *heat* — 

He's never felt — 

It's so *different* from the *toys* — 

So — 

So sleek and hot and *perfect* as it pushes in, all the way *in* — 

Aramis screams and arches again — 

Drops — 

And then the — the *thing* inside him begins to grow, begins to fill and pulse and — 

Right against his *pleasure-button*!

The knowledge comes: Wolf — and werewolf — males have knots, like dogs. 

Aramis grunts and clenches helplessly — 

*Howls* — 

Blushes and tries to open around the — the *knot* inside him — 

Tries to resist, tries to — 

Tries to resist the *pleasure* of each rocking *thrust* — 

Each *short* and *rough* — 

His mouth is open — 

He's grunting and panting and — 

He is so hard, so *hard* — 

He is *leaking*, leaking so *much*, but the All-Mother is taking everything, every *drop*, and the — 

The *knot* inside him is *shoving* against his pleasure-button — 

*Battering* it — 

Aramis has never *felt* — 

Aramis has never *known* — 

The knowledge comes: Porthos is much, much bigger. 

Aramis clenches *hard* — 

Aramis *wails* — 

*Stills* — 

And the All-Mother rocks him into every thrust relentlessly, viciously — She does not *stop*!

She makes Aramis *take* — 

The knowledge comes: Porthos will give you everything you desire. 

Aramis clenches *again* — and spurts, spurts all *over* — 

There's so *much* — 

He keeps — 

He is *wailing* and *pulsing* — and the All-Mother is taking everything, everything — 

The All-Mother is *fucking* him and stroking him, milking him and *taking* him — 

The All-Mother will not *waste* — 

Aramis *writhes* — 

He is —

He can feel Her *devotion* to him, to his happiness, to his *pleasure* — 

To every *drop* of his *pleasure* — 

"All-Mother!" 

She *floods* him with Her love, buries him in it, covers him and takes him and — 

He can't — 

Black.


	3. In which parents fret.

Treville turns the corner that leads down the hall of the children's suites just in time to see his Amina-love catching a collapsing — Aramis. 

His name is Aramis, *somehow*, and Treville would dearly like to have the story about that from the boy's mouth, but, for now, it's a great deal more important to see what's — 

Wrong. 

Except that once he's close enough to get a good *whiff* of his mate and the boy who will hopefully *become* his eldest child's mate...

Sex. 

Lots of it.

With *plants*. 

Or, in this case — "You took him to speak with the All-Mother?"

Amina frowns down at the boy in her arms. 

Treville knows better than to offer to *help* her hold him, but he moves closer anyway — "She was... aggressive?" 

Amina frowns more. "She did not *start* that way, sweet brother. She was gentle, soft. She *eased* our precious boy to his knowledge." 

"Hm. Something he asked made Her *need* to... well. We both know what She *does* when She fucks someone unconscious." 

Amina nods. "She has made his knowledge *absolute* about... something." 

Treville licks his lips. "I think we can guess *what*, Amina-love." 

Amina looks at him, eyes wide and frightened. 

"No, no, She wouldn't have *told* him —" 

Amina frowns still more deeply. "We must make this work, sweet brother," she says, and sounds younger than she did when they'd *met*. 

Treville moves round behind her and cups her shoulders, squeezing gently. "We will. We *will*." 

"He knows so little about werewolves..." 

"Still?" 

Amina carries Aramis back through his sitting room, into his bedroom. She pauses by the bed and *glares* at it. There's his girl. 

Treville rumbles a laugh. "I don't think he'd appreciate us undressing him again, Amina-love." 

"He did not *complain* about *Porthos* doing it!" 

"*Good*! Let's not push our luck." 

Amina growls and sets Aramis gently down on top of the duvet. And then *shoves* Treville out of the way so she can take off his shoes. 

Treville laughs quietly, *quietly* — 

Amina mutters and growls — 

"You don't want to disturb his rest, now —" 

She shows her teeth. 

Treville shuts it, like the smart man he is. 

Once Aramis's shoes are off and placed neatly in the armoire — 

Once Aramis has been *gazed* upon *worriedly* for a solid two minutes — 

Amina shows her teeth again. 

Treville bares his throat. 

"Hmph," Amina says, and departs. 

Treville follows on her heels — not too close; his Amina-love is working up a good head of steam, and that's always wonderful to behold from just the *right* distance — 

"I should have Ife *beat* you!" 

"You *do*, Amina-love —" 

"I should have Ife beat you every *day*." 

"I say again —" 

She turns and punches him under the ribs — 

"*Oof* — I — right, I'm behaving." 

"Oh, *are* you?" And Amina plants her wonderful fists on her hips and stares that little distance up at him. 

Treville smiles at her. "Have I mentioned today that I love you?" 

She growls low and *mean* — 

"Then I *definitely* haven't mentioned — *reminded* you — that our Porthos is literally the most likable man on the face of the earth when he puts *any* effort into it, and, really, even when he *doesn't*." 

"I —" 

"The *only* people who don't like him — *love* him — are *not actually people*, and you know that just as well as I do." 

Amina frowns worriedly again. 

Treville cups her strong arms. "I know. I know. This is his *one* chance, and it's *terrifying*, because, unlike with *you*, Aramis isn't an earth-mage who can smell everything there is to know about Porthos, and unlike with *Thomas*, Aramis isn't the werewolf who'd been Porthos's playmate for his whole life —" 

Amina croons, and her eyes are wet. That — 

Treville leans in and licks her face, licks the tears away, licks the fear-sweat away — 

"Oh, sweet brother, I know what you are *saying* —" 

"And I know what *you're* saying —" 

"It's not that I do not *trust* my sweet boy —" 

"And it's not that I'm not on tenterhooks —" 

Amina coughs a teary laugh. "He has waited so *long*, sweet brother..." 

"I know. I know. But — he hasn't been lonely," he says, quietly. "Our pack — our *whole* pack, with the de la Fères and Kitos and Reynard — is warm and *right*." 

Amina shudders and doesn't say anything. 

Treville pulls her into his arms and strokes her slowly and firmly. He knows that *she* knows what he didn't quite say — 

"It's an *obscenity*." 

"Amina-love —" 

"He will have his *mate*!" 

"Amina — don't — we can't even *think* those words loudly before the curse is broken —" 

She snarls — but doesn't pull back. "I apologize, my husband." 

He shivers and strokes her more, and more firmly. "My wife. We'll — all — get this right." 

She wraps her arms around him, at last. 

They stay right there for a while.


	4. Porthos is definitely very sorry for that thing he'd like to do daily.

This time, when Aramis wakes up, he can do nothing but grip at his genitals and turn *away* —

But. 

He is on the bed, in the suite he was given by Porthos's family — pack. 

He is on top of the covers, fully-dressed except for his shoes, and *most* of him *cannot* stop wondering if he'd just had a truly strange dream — perhaps Porthos had not taken his clothes off in the first place!

But... 

There are scents. 

The honeysuckle and wildflowers, yes — and there is, indeed, honeysuckle under his pillow — 

And there are his *own* scents. He — 

He smells like *sex*, like *musk*, like — 

He smells like he has been selling himself all *night*, and he feels... open. 

Not sore. 

Well-used. 

Aramis licks his lips and *blushes*, and — 

And there is the other scent. The *heavy* scent of plants he cannot name, of *their* musk, as if he has been servicing a *forest*. 

Or... the All-Mother. 

He licks his lips again and gets *up*. 

*Someone* had been in to leave basins of water on the hearth, and they are still quite warm. 

Aramis strips himself down and washes *thoroughly*, paying special attention to his genitals and arse even though *She* had left no *visible* signs of Herself. 

When he is done, he dries himself with a clean linen — very soft, excellent quality — and moves to put on his old clothes again. 

But...

The armoire is open, just a little. 

Aramis frowns and crosses the room to it, opening it the rest of the way on — clothes. Several different rich outfits which would *definitely* fit him well enough. The style is not the *latest* court fashion, but the clothes do not appear to be especially old, either. 

Perhaps they are clothes that Porthos had grown out of, or his younger brother. He'd said he has *one* brother, and two younger *sisters* — 

Aramis should have asked for information about them immediately — 

He will rectify that as soon as possible. 

Aramis looks out the window — it is morning... again. 

Somehow, he had slept all night. That thought reminds him that he is *terribly* hungry, and he picks clothes appropriate for riding from the armoire, just in case he'll be allowed to do so after a meal. And...

He thinks about the vision the All-Mother had given him of Porthos's father arriving to their home in Paris. 

Of their *pack*. 

The younger brother was almost certainly... that one, with the mostly-straight brown hair worn to his collar and the father's — *Treville's* — aquiline nose. *His* complexion had been a richer, darker brown than Porthos's, and his mouth had looked very soft, but his eyes had nearly been grey, and he had had no facial hair. 

His age had been as difficult to determine as that of everyone else in the family, because his face was unlined and youthful, but he was as tall as Porthos — if not quite so *large* — and his *manner*, even in that brief glimpse, was obviously quiet and serious. 

Studious? Grim? 

It bears thought. 

The clothes smell of flowers that are *not* in this room, but are still quite pleasant. 

Aramis considers the other people he had seen in that vision. Amina, of course — and she had been wearing a different wrap-dress and head-scarf set, but they had still been quite bright. 

Her smile for her husband — her mate? — had been wild and wide and full. 

And she had been gripping a petite young girl by the hastily-tied braid. 

*Her* clothes were as fine as everyone else's, but worn... less neatly? More indifferently? Yes, that seems like the better way to put it — though her *sword*-belt had been *perfectly* placed, and the sword itself more than ready to *use*. This — 

The younger brother, he remembers now, had *not* been wearing a sword, and this had not seemed strange — they were inside their home! — but perhaps...? 

*Porthos* had had daggers on his belt....

More thought needed.

The girl-child's eyes were as huge and dark as Porthos's, and her complexion was as pale as Porthos's, as well. Her mouth was shaped more like Treville's, and her nose was strong and hawkish. Her hair was the colour of rich, dark wood. 

Treville had greeted this little one first — and her smile had been as wild as her mother's, as *complete* — if somewhat more sharp. Her teeth had been too long for a human until Treville had chucked her under the chin and obviously chided her gently, reminding her of some lesson. 

She had blushed and corrected herself *while* Treville was lifting her into his arms — 

He had licked her all over her *face* while she giggled — 

And the *other* man with the rest of the pack — a pale, mostly-lean, but still broad-shouldered man exactly as tall as Amina with long, dark-red hair — had taken the hand Amina *had* been using to grip the girl-child's braid and — kissed the palm. 

Promisingly. 

Porthos had snorted for this behaviour and clapped the red-haired man on the back — 

Amina had lolled her tongue —

And even the younger brother had smiled.

And then the vision had faded. 

Loving parents, then. 

A loving — *pack*. 

A loving pack which does not stand on *ceremony* — no. *Porthos* does not stand on ceremony. *Amina* does not stand on ceremony. He knows nothing, truly, about how Porthos's younger siblings and Treville respond to strangers in the midst. 

And why hadn't the other sister been there to greet Treville?

Had she been with her husband?

Her... mate?

Had the red-haired man been another Kingsman? He hadn't been armed, at *all*. 

There are many things he would like to *know*. 

There — Aramis's belly *growls*. 

And then there's a knock on the door to the suite. 

Aramis... *perhaps* should not be surprised by this. 

Perhaps.

Still, at least he is dressed this time. He moves to open the door and finds Porthos waiting for him with a somewhat sheepish smile on his face. "I apologize," he says. 

That — Aramis raises an eyebrow. "For *which* thing are you apologizing?" 

Porthos looks *panicked* for a moment — 

And then he looks *appreciative* of everything Aramis *is* — 

Appreciative and — 

And Aramis cannot help thinking of everything the All-Mother had said about Porthos, everything She had made him *know*. There is no part of him which does not know that Porthos will give him everything he desires. 

He shivers — 

Porthos blinks and flares his nostrils — "Aramis? What's wrong?" 

"I... am thinking of the All-Mother," Aramis says, and offers his own rueful smile. 

Porthos nods. "She can be a little hard to take for the uninitiated —" 

"She gets *easier* to take?" 

Porthos grins. "It's *possible* to get used to Her..." 

"I —" But. "I would like to speak to Her more. I have... questions. About religion." 

"She has answers — and She's always eager to speak to the children who are eager to speak to *Her*." 

"Yes, I —" Aramis blushes. "*Hopefully*, this time She will leave me *able* to speak for a longer stretch of *time*." 

Porthos coughs into his fist. "She isn't... usually... *that* aggressive." 

"I." Aramis glares. 

Porthos licks his lips — and smiles ruefully and wryly. "Yes, Aramis, this *is* one of those times when I have to say you're special, but can't tell you exactly why." 

*Aramis*... thinks he knows. 

Even though two men cannot marry. 

Even though *all* of this is *impossible*.

The goddess has made Her will clear enough, answering Aramis's questions without words. 

Answering Aramis's questions *vigorously*. 

He shivers again — 

"Aramis...?" 

The goddess loves Her children well — including, apparently, *him*. 

Now Aramis must decide if he agrees with *how* She loves them. He looks up into Porthos's wide, dark, *worried* eyes. "Tell me what you are apologizing for." 

"Well... carrying you up here against your will, for one." 

"Yes? You regret this thing?" 

"You weren't ready to go. I never want to run you over, Aramis," he says, earnest and *honest*. 

And it leaves Aramis wondering what he will do if Aramis ever *wants* to be run over. It — no. "What *else* are you apologizing for?" 

"For the *All*-Mother running you over —" 

"You cannot apologize for the actions of someone else." 

"I — but I can apologize for not adequately *preparing* you," he says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis considers this — and nods. "You are forgiven for this, because you will do better in the future." 

"That I will," Porthos says, and smiles so — 

So — 

"But I'm not forgiven for the other?" 

"*No*. I gave you no *choice* but to carry me into the house, unless you chose to leave me curled up with the horses." 

"Well. I think we both know you wouldn't have *minded* that, Aramis." And Porthos is grinning brightly. 

Aramis blushes. "This is so. But *you* would not have been able to do so and still call yourself even an *adequate* host." 

Porthos inclines his head. "True enough. Apology rescinded." 

"*Good*. What *else* do you wish to apologize for?" 

"I..." Porthos blushes and smiles ruefully again. 

"*Yes*?" 

"Lurking outside your door in the hopes of hearing you need something." 

Aramis knows his expression is too pinched. Mother would chide him for frightening the customers *away* — 

Porthos is *wincing* — 

"How long were you *lurking*?" 

Porthos shifts on his feet like a *boy*. "About... an hour and a half." 

Aramis rears back. "I was *sleeping*!" 

"Your stomach was growling in your sleep — we really should feed you —" 

"Do not distract me!" 

"Right you are. I *apologize*. The fact that you haven't eaten in some ridiculous length of time is the *only* reason I was lurking —" 

"Is it?" 

Porthos blinks. "Aramis —" 

Aramis steps into Porthos's space and glares *hard*. "*Is* it?" 

And —

Porthos flares his nostrils and growls low. 

So — 

So deeply and harshly and — "I can still smell your musk." 

Aramis blinks and flushes *hard* — 

"I wanted to be *close*." 

"Porthos —" 

"I wanted to be able to *taste* it." 

Aramis steps *back*.

"I apologize for lying to you, even by omission," Porthos says in that low, growling voice. "I promised I wouldn't do that, and then I went back on my word. That's inexcusable —" 

"I..." 

"Yes, Aramis?" Porthos's eyes are that hot, bright green. 

He is the All-Mother's child. 

He will give Aramis everything he desires. 

"You will not apologize to me for lurking." 

"No?" 

"You needed my comfort *and* my good scents. Yes?" 

Porthos pants. Just twice. And then he brings his breathing back under control. "Yes. I did. I do." 

You always will? No — Aramis already knows he cannot ask that. "So. Rescind your apology." 

Porthos licks his lips. "I rescind my apology." 

"Good. Now. Will you lie to me again?" 

Porthos growls. "Never. Not — not even if it makes you run from me." 

"I am not a coward!" 

Porthos's green eyes flare even *hotter* — "No. You're not. Please let me feed you." 

Aramis cannot repress another shiver — 

He *knows* what Porthos wants to feed him!

And then his stomach growls again. 

"Aramis..." 

Aramis growls. "Your apology for lying is accepted!"

"Thank you —" 

"Please, take me to breakfast," Aramis says, and adjusts his borrowed clothes. 

Porthos rumbles — 

Shakes himself — and his eyes are dark again. 

"Thank you," he says again, and rests a hand at the small of Aramis's back. 

Just as if Aramis is already his — well.

*He* will try not to think these words, *either*. 

Instead: "You are very welcome, Porthos." 

"Am I?" 

Oh... but. "To feed me?" And Aramis smiles his *best* wicked smile. "Yes." 

Porthos's eyes flare again — but only for a moment. 

Aramis smiles wider — 

"Will you let me take you riding after you eat?" 

*Yes* — "A Kingsman must have many duties to perform..." 

"I'm on leave for the next little while, short of emergencies. Athos and d'Artagnan — the rest of my unit — are picking up my slack for me. They can call for me if they need me at any time, and, thanks to Uncle Jason, I can *be* where they are in moments —" 

"Tell me how!" 

"Uncle Jason is a shadow-mage, among other things. It lets him open portals between different locations — and between different spheres." 

"*Oh*. He must be so powerful!" 

"He *truly* is. He's immortal, too." 

"He — this is *possible*?"

Porthos smiles ruefully. "It is, Aramis, but Jason gained immortality in a terrible way. It's his story. I'll let him tell it." 

"I will not pry!" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows at him. 

Aramis flushes, but — "I will, perhaps, pry. A little." 

"That's *right*. And that's what we *want*." 

Why — no. "Perhaps..." 

"Mm?" 

"Perhaps your Uncle will teach me how to use my magic?" 

"He's champing at the bit to do just that. He's taught all of us all *kinds* of things we could do with our magery. He *loves* to teach." 

"This is so?" 

"Oh, yeah. He calls it his vocation," Porthos says, and leads them to a broad staircase which they descend. "It *is* his vocation — along with fighting for the right." 

"He *is* a Kingsman." 

Porthos coughs — "Uh — no. No. He doesn't give his allegiance to *anyone* except, well, our pack." 

"Oh..." 

"No princes, no *gods* — not anyone else. He doesn't do that anymore." 

"There is a story there." 

"There truly is, Aramis. And — he'll give it to you if you ask." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully and tucks the thoughts away. "What are your siblings' names?" 

Porthos grins. "Well, I'm the eldest, like I said. Next is Lucien — he's twenty-three —" 

"Is he a Kingsman?" 

"We're all *technically* Kingsmen — that's how our agreement with Henri *works* — but Lucien is much more of a scholar and courtier than anything else, and Henri knows it. He has a Ministry in his future, and all the little nobles that have been having their own way up 'til now are going to be scurrying for *cover*." 

"*Good*! What does he like to study?" 

"History and law are where he focuses himself. But when you can catch him having a little fun?" 

"Yes? Yes?" 

And Porthos grins with a nostalgic and truly *delighted* light in his eyes. "He likes studying city-planning. He has piles of parchment of what the cities of the future will look like, with spaces set aside so that the poor can live just as comfortably and safely as everyone else." 

"Oh..." 

"Yeah. He's shy of that, though. He thinks he should be focused on his future career, more —" 

"But when he is a Minister he'll be able to *implement* his plans for the cities!" 

"That's what we've told —" 

"Tell him *more*!" 

Porthos grins again. "Maybe you'll help...?" 

Aramis blushes and blushes — "What of your sisters? How old is Jeannette? What does she look like?" 

"Jeannette is twenty-two —" 

"Oh! So soon after Lucien!" 

"That's right —" 

"Tell me more! The All-Mother showed me *some* of your pack, but not all." 

Porthos rumbles. "Jeannette's bloody gorgeous. I mean, I think everyone in my pack is beautiful, but Jeannette looks good even to people who are *prejudiced* against werewolves." 

"Oh, yes?" And they are walking through halls with few portraits, but many paintings — mostly with natural themes. 

"I — here," Porthos says, and leads them back in the other direction, and then down a *different* hall. 

There are *excellent* portraits of Treville and Amina, of Porthos in his Kingsman uniform, of Lucien holding a book and looking *grim*, and — 

"Oh." 

"Told you." 

The woman in the portrait has hair the same brown as Treville's, but the curls almost seem to spring with their own life. Her complexion is the same pale brown as Porthos's, but there's a quality to it that almost brings to mind a kind of fine *silk*. Her eyes are wide and blue-grey, the lashes long. Her nose is soft. Her mouth is broad and softer than that. Her smile speaks of genteel *wickedness*, despite being only a simple curl, and — 

And. 

Aramis licks his lips. 

"Do you need a moment?" 

"Porthos!" 

Porthos laughs hard. "The portraitist was so proud of how well he'd captured Jeannette that he held a private showing of the work before delivering it to *us*." He shakes his head. "Marriage proposals came in for her by the *stack*. Including ones from families that had advocated having us all *exiled*." 

Aramis — does not lick his lips again. "Who... did she wed?" 

Porthos grins again and gestures to the other *side* of the hall, where, now that Aramis is paying attention, there is only *one* portrait hanging. The rest of the wall is bare — waiting. 

In the portrait that *is* there, Jeannette is seated in a rich — but *comfortable*-looking — chair, and beside her, with one hand resting lightly on the back of the chair, is a tall, pale, relatively lean young man with long, loose, dark-blond curls; wide, deep blue eyes that speak of their own wickedness — and a great deal of intellect; a straight nose, soft lips, and a strong jawline.

Aramis frowns. 

"Mm? Aramis...?" 

Aramis looks to Jeannette again — in *this* portrait, her eyes are excited — no. They are *wild*. There is a *thrill* to them to go *with* the wickedness. She is pleased by the match. Or so the portraitist would have it. 

"Are you well, Aramis?" 

"Jeannette was happy with her husband?"

Porthos smiles *proudly*. "Her *mate*, Aramis. And, really, we'd all played together as children," he says, and nods toward the portrait. "That's Thomas d'Athene de la Fère." 

"*Oh* — but." 

"Mm?" 

"She was *certain* her mate was — wouldn't he have been as close as a brother?" 

"He was and *is*, Aramis. And — ah." Porthos shifts on his feet again. 

Oh... "Porthos? Is this a question you cannot answer?" 

"Not... quite," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "I — when one of us finds a mate — when we're mature enough to *look* — we know it. We can't help knowing it. Everything is... clear." 

Aramis does not *let* himself ask any further *questions*. He swallows and firms his mouth *closed*. 

And Porthos looks at him with... such gratitude. Such naked and raw and — 

And Porthos will give him everything he desires. 

Aramis breathes. "What is your youngest sister's name?" 

Porthos smiles relievedly — and with genuine happiness. He leads Aramis to the last portrait on the other wall — "Odile. She's your age — just turned fourteen. She sat for this portrait last year." 

And the girl in the portrait is much too neat for the girl in the vision the All-Mother had shared, though... 

It is possible she has grown into the rectitude of gentry... somewhat. She *is* wearing a dress, and her curls have been tamed, but the belts are right there, and so is the sword and the *pistol*. 

She is also posed *standing*, with one hand on the *hilt* of the rapier, and — 

Porthos sighs with pleasure. "She means to *be* a Kingsman when she's old enough." 

"I!" 

"She certainly has all the powers and skills and abilities we do — and when she *shifts*, she's just as big as anyone could wish." 

Aramis blinks rapidly — 

Considers — 

"Perhaps she could teach me... certain things?"

Porthos inhales sharply and stares into his eyes. "Did you. Did you want to be... a soldier?"

"I have *always* wished to be a soldier, Porthos." 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles, eyes *thrilled*. "We'll teach you *everything* —" 

Oh, but — "I — I have to get back to *Paris* —" 

"We can go as a family. We have property there. And — we can send a rider ahead, let your mother know we're coming — invite her to stay —" 

"Wait, wait!" 

Porthos inhales again and nods. "I apologize —" 

"Do you want to take anything you said *back*." 

"*No*!" 

"Then do not apologize!" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Should I... wait until you *tell* me when to apologize?" 

Aramis opens his mouth — 

His *stomach* growls — 

Porthos says nothing, only rests his hand at the base of Aramis's spine and leads them out of the hall of portraits. 

Aramis does not scowl — much — 

"About my question..." 

"Yes, you should wait!" 

"Right you are." 

"You cannot answer why you want my mother to stay with you!" 

"I can, actually," Porthos says, and grins at him. 

"Oh — why is this?" 

"So that *you'll* be happy staying with me." 

Aramis scowls *deeply*. 

Porthos swallows. "Or... we could talk about..."

"Mother lives and works at Madame Margaud's, in the Merchant's Quarter." 

"Oh —" 

"The name she took when she left her people in Spain is Claudette d'Herblay!" 

"Will you... I'd like to know who her people are. Your people?"

Too *bad* — no. "Porthos would like to know all things about me?" 

Porthos rumbles seemingly *helplessly*. "*Yes*." 

Aramis nods slowly. "My mother's people are Spanish Rom. *I* consider myself Rom, though the man who fathered me on my mother is *only* Spanish." 

"I still want to *kill* him," Porthos says — 

"He is irrelevant! *You* have made him so." 

"I —" 

"Now tell me what your family, your *pack*, thinks of the Rom peoples." 

Porthos blinks. "They're some of the few groups of people who deal with us like the people *we* are, Aramis. They *understand* magery, the different gods, the different *children* of the different gods — it's all in the lore for them. It's a bloody *relief* when we get to spend time around their communities, Aramis." 

And you would want to have this in your *family*? 

But he cannot ask. 

He cannot *ask*. 

"Aramis...?" 

"You... truly do not have... reservations about Rom?" 

"I —" 

"I'll field this one, son," *Treville* says, as they walk into the dining room. He's standing at the head of the table, and Odile is sitting at his left. Both of them are dressed for riding, as well — 

Odile is giving Aramis a *frank* evaluation with her eyes — 

Aramis stands *straight* — 

And Treville smiles at Aramis... paternally. Before gesturing to the chairs at his right. 

The other members of the pack are nowhere to be seen — 

And Aramis lets himself be led to the table, which is *not* as long as he had expected, nor is this room as large. Perhaps this is their smaller dining room. 

Porthos pulls out Aramis's chair, then takes the chair next to Treville. Treville smiles down at all of them for several moments before sitting back down and ringing the bell at his right hand. 

"Just to warn you, son," he says, to Aramis, "we take our meat rare and we take it *often* in this pack. You'll be served more human-friendly foods, of course, but if the sight of us eating rare meat nearly all the time gives you difficulty, you are more than welcome to take your meals anywhere else you wish." 

Aramis blinks. "No, I — all is *well*, sir. When we have splurged on rich foods, I, too, have enjoyed meat cooked rare." 

Everyone at the table rumbles — and Odile smiles brightly. It is still sharp, for all that her teeth are human in appearance. "How do you like the scents in your room?" 

"I like them *well* — I. May I call you Odile?" 

"Please do," she says, and rumbles more. The braid her hair is pulled into today is almost *regimentally* neat. 

Aramis smiles at her. "I had wondered... perhaps the scents of such things are more pleasing to wolves than the scents of the more ruthlessly *cultivated* blooms?"

Odile wrinkles her nose. "*I* think most of the fashionable flowers smell like shite." 

Aramis *coughs* — 

Treville hums — 

"That's just the fertilizer, little sister —" 

"It is *not* —" 

"Odile —" 

"*You've* been sniffing gunpowder for fifteen years —" 

"You *want* to sniff gunpowder for the rest of your *life* —" 

"And I'll be *better* at it," she says, "because *I* have the better *nose*." 

Treville snickers and strokes down the *bridge* of her nose — 

"Oh — *Daddy* —" 

"It is a *wonderful* nose, Odile," Aramis says, "and I could see from the way you moved — when you were much younger than this! — in the vision the All-Mother gave me that you would have *much* to teach me, if you ever felt inclined to do so." 

She blinks — 

Grins *ferociously* — 

"Where do you want to *start*?" 

Aramis opens his mouth — 

And Treville stops laughing and clears his throat. 

"Daddy?" 

"I'm sorry, cub, but I could be called back to Paris at any time. I want to work on your shooting from horseback as soon as we *can*." 

Odile winces and nods, and then turns back to Aramis. "Tomorrow?" 

Aramis blushes — 

And Porthos leans in. "I was thinking... we could all take a trip to the city. Aramis misses his mum." 

"Oh, but training is much harder in the city —" 

"Except when we actually *use* the spaces Henri set aside for us," Treville says *sternly*. 

Both Porthos and Odile make faces. 

Aramis looks back and forth between them. "What... what is wrong with those spaces?" 

"They're *awful* —" 

"They're werewolf *paddocks*," Porthos says — 

"The other nobles come to *stare* when they know we're there —" 

Treville clears his throat *hard* —

And Odile and Porthos shut their mouths and sit straight. 

Treville nods. "They're not perfect. They *are* too bloody public. They *do* treat us like horseflesh they're in the process of trading. And then? We scare them *away*." 

"I —" 

Treville *looks* at Odile. 

Even her braid seems to wilt. 

"It's not especially difficult to do — as you *both* remember. Even the ones who've been there before and who've convinced themselves that they *won't* be frightened *this* time can always smell their violent deaths coming once we shift to get down to business. And then? They *all* leave. They titter and tarry about it to make themselves feel better, but the stink of their fear-sweat follows them, and then we're alone again. 

"Where we can do our bloody *jobs* for another day." 

Odile nods. "Yes, Daddy." 

Treville nods. "All *right* —" 

"Daddy," Porthos says quietly. 

"Son —" 

"Don't you think they'll stay a *little* longer when you bring Odile with you?" 

Treville flushes. 

"When *she* shifts? When she strips down naked and shows off her eight juvenile *teats*?" 

Treville *snarls* — and stops.

Just... stops. 

And rests one hand on Odile's stiff shoulder. "Let me tell you what's going to happen when Odile strips down and shifts in front of those... people. One, they're going to pretend to be shocked and appalled. Two, they're going to be *titillated*. Three, one or more of them will make a *comment*. Four, *all* of us will be tempted to strew their intestines all *over* Paris. Five? *Odile* will leap into the viewing area, scattering their chairs and picnic baskets and making a few of them shit themselves. Then she will howl her *best* howl, making the *rest* of them shit themselves. Then she will grab whoever *hasn't* run away *yet*, and say, in her deepest, most eldritch voice — well, cub, what do *you* think you should say?" 

Odile licks her lips slowly. 

"No, cub, you won't be allowed to talk with your claws *or* teeth. Not this time." 

She growls. "All right, Daddy. Since it will be *theater*, then I think I should keep it simple. Something like, 'It's time for you all to leave' or 'Time to go.'" And she raises one eyebrow. 

Treville raises an eyebrow at *Porthos* — 

Porthos only *stares* for a long moment — 

And then an even *longer* moment — 

Treville raises his eyebrow *higher* — 

And Porthos laughs hard. "Right, Daddy, why the *hell* didn't you let me and *Athos* do that?" 

"Because you weren't women, son," Treville says bluntly, and turns to Aramis. "And I haven't forgotten your question, Aramis, I promise." 

"No! I understand; this is important." 

Treville smiles warmly at him. "So is this — and I'll tell you like my dearest, eldest brother told us all when we were — human — Army recruits... fuck, this is forty years ago now." 

"Oh... yes?" 

"Mm. I was fourteen. My brother and Porthos's Uncle Kitos — who was Honoré then — was just turning fifteen. Laurent was our lieutenant, and he had the thankless task of turning a bunch of scrawny, undisciplined, underage recruits into soldiers. This task would've normally gone to someone of much lower rank than the eldest son of the Comte de la Fère, but Laurent was a tactless sonofabitch then, and he'd made a lot of enemies. 

"And didn't give a *fraction* of a damn about it. He'd taken us boys — gentry and merchant-class and commoner — and tumbled us all *together*. For the first time *ever* in the history of the French Army." 

"*Oh*! He did not get into trouble for this?" 

"A boy could get whipped for violating the chain of command, son — and the higher-ups didn't give a *damn* about us, to be frank. There wasn't anyone in our group ranked especially high, you see." And Treville smiles wryly. 

Aramis frowns and nods. "I see. Please continue." 

Treville inclines his head. "Laurent told us later that he wasn't best pleased by *how* he managed to enact his plans — he felt dishonoured by his subterfuge — but he had learned that, sometimes, the ends justified the means. In any event, you couldn't just tumble a bunch of rowdy boys from different classes together without there being trouble." 

"Of course not!" 

"So he called the assembly. And he made us stand, in the heat, until we were *all* wondering if he planned to *sweat* the cussedness out of us. But he was right there with us. Right there suffering in the *heat* with us. 

"It made no sense — until he began to talk. 

"'An army,' he said, 'rises and falls together. Each man counts on his brothers beside him, and his brother behind him, and his brother ahead of him. When you enlisted in the French Army, you gave away your right to choose who your brothers would be.' And then he stopped. And looked at us. 

"*Studied* us — and there were more than a few mutinous faces in the group." 

"Was yours one of them?" 

"Absolutely! I wanted to grind the faces of most of my so-called brothers among the gentry into the *dirt*," Treville says, and laughs. "I've never been much good at being gentry. My children do better at it. He looks at Odile lovingly. "Mostly." 

She smiles at him with sharp teeth — 

He chucks her chin — and doesn't chide her. 

Porthos shakes his head and smiles. 

And Treville turns back to Aramis. "But I was talking about Laurent. Once he'd made his circuit of us, he stood up in front of us again and nodded. He said: 'You each made a vow, on your lives and souls, to your King and your country. A vow to serve. A vow to defend, to the best of your ability. To the *death*. You will all die in moments should you go on as you have begun. You will all humiliate yourselves, fail, and fail to live up to the vows you made as *men*. You will not *be* men, should you choose to go on as you have. 

"'You will be oath-breakers. You will be cowards. You will be nothing more than the dirt beneath greater men's *boots*. Now. Would you like to know *why*.'" We all stared at that. I personally didn't know whether I wanted to punch him in the mouth or listen to him talk for an hour *after* punching him in the mouth —" 

Porthos snorts — 

"So I shouted out 'tell us!' And he nodded. 'Very well, recruit. I commend your initiative, if not your tone.' He then looked... just a little distant. Almost dreamy. You could tell that whatever he was going to say next was something he'd spent time thinking on. You could tell he *believed* it." 

Aramis leans in. "What did he say?" 

Treville breathes deep, as if searching for the scents of that day, that *moment* — "He said: 'A man learns nothing by staying in one place, speaking to the same people about the same things day after day. A man remains small, and provincial, and ignorant when he does such things, and while such men are not *incapable* of serving in an Army, they are incapable of serving with *true* distinction. A man must be able to learn new things every day. A man must be able to recognize that there *are* new things to learn every day. A man must *seek* to learn new things every day, and open his mind to the world around him, and to the people who inhabit that world. 

"'There is not one person on this earth incapable of teaching you something, be it directly or indirectly, and you will not be soldiers of the King until you can embody that lesson with all of yourselves." 

Aramis blinks. "Did that... work?" 

"That and the punishment details. Several boys still washed out, but, in the end, we learned fast and well. We learned *everything* fast and well, and when the higher-ups came down to observe us, they were constantly heaping praise on us. It was hard to ignore. And Laurent hammered home his lessons time and again. He got specific about it. There was never any room for pointless, baseless hatred in his world, never any room for that kind of *ignorance*. He taught us all that honour and a willingness to fight for the right meant more than any and everything else about a person, and he just kept being *right*," Treville says, and hums again. "Do you have any thoughts about the subject? You and your mother have had to deal with a fair amount of shite from the upper classes, I'd wager." 

"You are... asking me?" 

"Both my son and my wife have made it clear that you are a highly intelligent — *and* well-educated — young man, Aramis," Treville says, and folds his large, heavily-scarred hands together in front of him. "I have learned — the hard way, sometimes — to treat all such people as sources for furthering my *own* education." 

And that... "Punishment details?" 

Treville smiles again, kindness lines cutting deep. "And the occasional bar fight which truly never had to happen." 

Aramis coughs. "I... well, my mother, my good mother, she has always trained me to keep my mind open and clear, while still remaining cautious. My mother has taught me that just as the world must earn my passions, so must it earn my *fears*." 

The wolves rumble for this — 

Aramis smiles — 

And Treville leans in. "More?" 

"Ah, well, always there is give and take, yes? My mother has trained me to give others a measure of what they want of me —" 

"So that they don't notice how much they're giving you...?" And Treville smiles even *more* warmly. 

Aramis spreads his hands. "These things... you are a man of the world, yes?" 

"That I am, son. And I frequented any *number* of brothels in my youth." 

"This is so?" 

Treville nods judiciously, and then turns to Porthos. "Son?" 

"Ladies and gentlemen — and everyone in between — of custom know a great deal more about the world than the average piss-pants nobleman, Aramis. It's like I was saying about the Rom peoples — they tend to be a *relief* to be around, whether or not I'm *looking* for their custom." 

"Exactly so," Treville says, and turns back to Aramis. "Some of my favorite people in this world have been people in your — and your mother's — trade, son. Never think that *we* think you're lesser for it." 

Odile snorts. 'That's *right*. After all, *you* don't think less of us for occasionally eating people. Do you?" 

"Well... no," Aramis says, and blinks at himself. 

Porthos grins. "Did that surprise you, Aramis?" 

"Ah..." 

And, at that moment, two maids burst in with trays *groaning* with meat and other foods. 

"I'm *sorry*, sir," the first, tall, short-haired one says. "Cook *insisted* that Aramis should have turnips *and* honeyed carrots." 

"For *breakfast*, Justine?" 

She shrugs easily and begins stacking large amounts of food in front of Aramis. "Remember, Aramis — can I call you Aramis?" 

"I —" 

"You don't *have* to eat everything, but if you don't, Cook will be heartbroken." 

Aramis blanches — 

Justine sticks her tongue out. "I'm just playing. He knows you're human," she says, and pinches his *cheek* before serving the rest of the food on her tray. 

The other maid — Odile addresses her as Beatrice — proceeds to fill the wolves' plates with an *incredible* amount of meat — and *some* vegetables. 

The meat is indeed quite rare, but it is still cooked enough that it's possible to slice it reasonably easily. 

Aramis makes note. 

And then the maids leave after many winks and pats and squeezes — 

Another pinch for Aramis — 

Treville is laughing — 

Odile is grinning — 

Porthos is smiling more cautiously.

"You are checking to see how I take such things?" 

Porthos nods once. 

Aramis cocks his head. "Are you so liberal with all of your servants?" 

"We truly are, Aramis. It's one of the reasons why some servants aren't suited to work in this household." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully, and turns to Treville with an eyebrow up. 

Treville smiles wryly. "My father won nobility for our family, as I think you might know...?" 

"Oh — yes! But he rose so far so quickly!" 

"Very true," Treville says, and sips his watered wine. "But he never lost his... hmm. At heart, he was always a common soldier. And he said, more than once, that if he *had* to have a huge, draughty manor house — instead of a good, sturdy cottage with some nice stables on the grounds — then he was damned well going to run it like a tavern. I see no reason to go against my father's wisdom in this matter," he says, and his eyes are twinkling. 

That... Aramis cocks his head to the side. "You have enjoyed scandalizing your fellow nobles in this way." 

Treville's eyes flare a *hot* blue. "In every *possible* way, son." 

"And when Henri is no longer in power? If your enemies come into power?" 

"*Good* question, Aramis," Porthos says, and *glares* at Treville. 

Treville laughs softly and pats Porthos on the shoulder. "You're heard. Both of you. But, one: Henri, with our help, has been dismantling the power base of his — and our — enemies for decades and raising those who are... shall we say sympathetic? To the cause of witches and shifters in France. Two, the line is clear. *Proving* Marie de Medici had a hand in that assassination plot took far too much time — no one ever said the woman didn't have a brain in her head — but prove it we did. 

"She's been *thoroughly* exiled, and she *will* not be back. Louis will take the throne in due course, and everything *he* knows of us has been filtered through his father. Not to mention the fact that my Amina-love herself saved his life when he was fevered by a summer ague, Aramis. I'm not — *we're* not — *quite* as reckless as we seem."

Porthos grumbles. 

"Though I will admit that my boy here — with Lucien at his side — will buy even *more* insurance for us." 

"That's *right*." 

*Odile* grumbles. 

Treville grins at her. "My cub, here, I think... will give Porthos and Lucien just a *few* grey whiskers." 

Odile smiles *viciously* —

Treville rumbles. "Let's eat." 

They do just that, and the fare is more plain than what Aramis is accustomed to when he has eaten richly in Paris, but the quality is high, and everything is delicious. 

He cannot stop himself from going for second and third helpings of the venison — 

Especially when it makes Porthos rumble and *flare* at him — 

He is so *pleased* — 

He is so — 

He will give Aramis everything he desires. 

Aramis blushes, and makes sure to eat well of the carrots and turnips, as well — 

He will thank 'Cook' for them — 

He certainly did not *have* to make them especially for Aramis, and they are very good — but, finally, he is full enough that eating more would only make riding difficult and uncomfortable. 

Treville has already stopped eating — 

Porthos is very clearly winding down — 

*Odile* shows *no* signs of stopping. 

The maids had piled her *multiple* plates high, despite her being quite petite and — hm. 

"If... I may ask..." 

Porthos and Treville both turn to him with their eyebrows up. Odile never looks away from her food. 

Aramis nods to her. 

Treville laughs softly and tugs on Odile's braid — 

She *growls* at him — 

Treville laughs *hard* — 

And Porthos snorts and turns back to Aramis. "Adolescent werewolves — and other kinds of shifters, too — eat a *lot*. They burn up a lot of energy. The All-Mother says it's *mostly* because they shift so much by accident, when they lose control of their emotions and the like, whereas adult shifters only shift when they *want* to — for the most part."

Aramis blinks. "You... are not bound to the moon." 

*Porthos* blinks. "Not at all, Aramis. That's superstition. *Useful* superstition for us — and I think you can guess why." 

Aramis nods slowly. "Yes, I see. Your enemies underestimate you." 

"*Habitually*. Even *now*. Like I said, it's useful to have the stories rolling around. Daddy and Uncle Laurent wanted to publish treatises about us, get the truth out all around, and there are arguments for that, and the time may come in the future *to* do that, but..." 

"Not yet?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "Not yet, son. Our wives — our *mates* — made us see reason. Sometimes, the world isn't ready for perfect honesty or clarity." 

And that — Aramis narrows his eyes. "*I* will *always* be ready for honesty and clarity!" 

Treville hums — 

Porthos stares deeply into his eyes — 

Porthos stares at him as if he is *beautiful* —

Porthos — "I'd like to be honest and clear with you, Aramis," he says, and his voice is low and *hungry*. 

Treville inhales sharply — 

Odile *stops* eating — 

And Porthos snarls and turns away. 

Aramis nods and —

And... 

He rests his hand on Porthos's own. "I know — I *believe* I know — what questions not to ask, Porthos." 

Porthos shivers like a *horse*. "You deserve better than that," he says, and the hand beneath Aramis's own is a massive, hard *fist*. 

Aramis strokes it. "Perhaps you will give this to me one day." 

Porthos stiffens — and then relaxes all over and smiles down at him. "I'd like that very much, Aramis." 

Aramis's fingers tingle where he is *touching* Porthos — he hums and pulls back. "For now, you should take me to ride, friend Porthos —" 

Porthos rumbles *explosively* — 

Aramis *grins*. "Before I steal your Jeannette's Gabrielle and follow your father to learn how to shoot from horseback." 

"Oi, now, *I'm* teaching you that —" 

"Hmm. I think my friend should be quicker than this..."

Porthos stares at him wonderingly.

Odile and Treville stare at them *both* *approvingly* — 

Aramis... 

Aramis is warm.


	5. A visit with Jason Blood.

Before Porthos takes him to the stables — they leave Treville and Odile at the table — he insists that they send the message to Aramis's mother. This is *well* with Aramis, especially since it means that they will meet Porthos's Uncle Jason. 

"Why did he not eat breakfast with us? Why did your mother and Lucien and the others not eat breakfast with us?" 

"They *all* ate earlier, Aramis. Mum rises before dawn *every* day, and so does Lucien. Uncle Jason goes back and forth between eating with them and eating with us. Jeannette is staying in the city with the de la Fères while she's pregnant." 

"*Oh*. Her first child?" 

"That's right —" 

"And where are we going? Does your Uncle have a study or a library away from the other suites?" 

"His *primary* suite is away from the other suites —" 

"But why?" 

"Because the workings he does in there... uh." Porthos frowns and licks his lips. "Well, you'll see when we're a little..." 

"A little what?" 

"You'll see." 

And then the temperature drops. 

And the halls get *darker*, despite the fact that all of the wall-sconces are lit. 

And the shadows are... wrong. 

The shadows seem *solid*. 

The shadows *move*! "*Porthos* —" 

"Don't worry, Aramis. He doesn't mean you any harm." 

"*Porthos*." 

"Right, more information: The shadows belong to him — mostly — and whenever a mage gets this close to him, they get kind of agitated. But he *knows* who you are, and who *I* am, so they won't do anything to you." And Porthos looks to him, obviously to see if that was *helpful*. 

Aramis tries very hard to keep his face from growing pinched — 

Porthos winces and pauses in the hall. "If you would tell me what you wanted to know..." 

... pinched gets results. "*What* would the shadows do if your Uncle did *not* recognize us?" 

"Well... terrible things?" 

Aramis glares. 

Porthos coughs. "Right. Aramis, I've seen them flay people *alive*. I've seen them *decapitate* people — and drink *all* the blood. I've seen them *disembowel* —" 

"I..." 

"No? No more? Are you *sure*." 

Aramis opens his mouth to flay Porthos with his *words* — 

"Porthos. You are *not* to *torment* our guest," comes a richly *amused* tenor voice from the deepest shadows. 

Porthos snorts. "Jason, *please* stop being dramatic and peel some of these shadows *back*." 

The voice *laughs* richly — and then the shadows seem to *roll* back into the corners, allowing the wall-sconces to light the hall they're in, and revealing *Lucien* — and the red-haired man from the All-Mother's vision. 

"*Thank* you," Porthos says — 

"You're quite welcome," the red-haired man — *Jason* — says and smiles at both of them warmly. 

His age is as difficult to place as everyone else in this family. His features make him look no older than Porthos's thirty, but there is something *about* the smile on his face which speaks of great age, and Aramis already *knows* that he is immortal. 

"Brother, I didn't even smell you down here," Porthos says, and licks Lucien's cheeks. "What the hell were you and Jason *doing*?" 

Lucien licks him back. "I was actually visiting one of Jason's library dimensions. He has some scrolls from the Roman era that have a great deal of detail about... well." And Lucien smiles and lowers his head. 

His blush makes him look much younger — 

Jason looks as though he may *coo* — 

And Porthos looks *thrilled*. "Oh, I know that look. You found some information about the water table or what the ground is like under one of the settlements or suchlike." 

"I — introduce us?" 

Porthos gives Aramis a *meaningful* look — 

Aramis hums and steps forward —

"Lucien, Uncle Jason, this is Aramis. He's brilliant, *inquisitive*, *honest*, *respectful*, *honourable*, and about a million other wonderful things —" 

"*Porthos* —" 

"And he expects the best from everyone he *meets*, so look sharp." 

Aramis glares at Porthos —

"I *believe* we can manage to give Aramis our better sides," Jason says, and smiles again — but doesn't step forward. 

*Lucien* offers his arm to clasp — 

Aramis returns the gesture immediately. "It's a pleasure to meet you both. Porthos has already shared much about you. He was even well-*behaved* when he shared this information," Aramis says. Pointedly. 

Porthos coughs into his fist and grins. 

It should not be so endearing. 

Lucien hums and pulls back until he can cover Aramis's hand with his own. "He never wants to admit this, but as much as he and our father butt heads over our father's... shall we say puckishness?" 

Porthos coughs around the word 'arsehole'. 

"They are *very* much alike, and, deep down, they're *both* proud of that."

Aramis narrows his eyes and considers this for a moment — 

Lucien raises a well-arched brown eyebrow — 

"Porthos has... kept himself from very *much* playfulness with me." 

Lucien smiles ruefully. "Well... he *is* more careful than Dad in some ways." 

"He feels I must be treated with kid gloves?" 

"He wants to make the *best* possible impression on you," Jason says, and leans against the wall. There are no portraits, and no other art in this hall. "And he believes he must do so by remaining on court behaviour." 

"You could ask *me* these questions, Aramis —" 

"And yet his teases, his playfulness, still come out from time to time," Aramis says, ignoring Porthos and looking to Lucien and Jason. "Is it that he was not as carefully trained in such matters?" 

"We were all carefully trained, Aramis," Lucien says —

"And, occasionally, that training even came from your parents," Jason says. 

Lucien and Porthos laugh ruefully, and Lucien says, with a soft smile, "It was always abundantly clear that neither of our parents wished us to become courtiers unless *we* wanted to — and even then, they would ask Jeannette and me if we were *absolutely* positive *constantly*." 

"I had to haul them off their *backs*," Porthos says, ruefully. 

"And we appreciate that more than we can *ever* say," Lucien says, and smiles more broadly. "We took our training from the de la Fères, especially from Aunt Marie-Angelique. She's fond of saying that the best courtiers can move from the palace to the salon to the tavern to the *dockside* with nary a quirk in their composure." 

Aramis nods in approval. "My mother agrees with her about this, though..." He gestures gently and airily with his free hand. "She does not limit this rule to courtiers, you understand." 

Jason hums — 

Porthos looks *thrilled* with him — 

And Lucien leans in, continuing to squeeze his hand gently. "Porthos has told us that your relationship with your mother is a close one. Please know that she will always be welcome —" 

Abruptly, the temperature grows much colder — 

The hall is *dark* again — 

But Aramis can still see Lucien wincing. 

"She will be welcome... when I visit your homes?" And Aramis squeezes Lucien's hand. 

Porthos takes a harsh breath. "Yes, Aramis," he says, in a low, formal, *grateful* voice. 

Lucien nods once, and steps back, standing straight and looking *regretful*. It — 

"Lucien..." 

"Yes, Aramis?" 

"I wanted to say... I am *very* interested in your studies of city planning." 

Lucien blinks — 

Aramis smiles and spreads his hands. "I have spent my life in Paris. I have seen for myself the many *mistakes* that were made as the city grew and grew and grew! While my mother, always she wished I would stay in the Merchant's Quarter, I would wander *far*. I saw *much*. And when your brother told me of your passions? I could not help but wonder if there was anything which could be *done* by a truly passionate man." And Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

Lucien blinks more — 

Blushes like a *boy* — 

And then *bows*. "I look forward to spending more time with you, Aramis." 

Aramis purrs. "The feeling is mutual, Lucien." 

Porthos is grinning *broadly* — 

Aramis flushes hot — 

And Lucien smiles again, as well. "I'll take my leave, then —" 

Porthos rests a hand on Lucien's arm. "Brother, we're here to talk about a family trip into Paris tomorrow, among other things." 

"Yes, brother? Long-term?" 

Porthos smiles at *him* again. "Yeah." 

Lucien nods once. "It will take me more than a day to wrap up my projects here. I'll take point on managing the household and follow in, perhaps, a week." 

"Sounds good," Porthos says, and licks Lucien's cheeks again — 

Lucien licks Porthos's *and* Jason's cheeks — "Thank you again, Uncle." 

"You are *always* welcome to my libraries, Lucien. You inspire me to *organize*." 

"Jason," Lucien chides, "We both know that *you* know *precisely* where all of your possessions are at any given time." 

"Well, that's just *prudent*. Some of those things —" 

"Most of them —" 

"— are *dangerous* —" 

"— and terrifying," Lucien says, and grins at Jason. 

Jason strokes his cheek fondly. "Go on. That scroll-case has a blood-sealed preservation-spell on it, but it is, by necessity, less powerful than the ones in the library — 

"Mm. And the scrolls are not in the best condition, yes. I'll be quick and careful, I promise." 

"There's now a preservation-spell on your suite, as well — you'll notice a slight heaviness to the air, and a slight chill." 

"As you say, Uncle," Lucien says, formal again, and he turns once more to Aramis. "Until we meet again." 

Aramis inclines his head. 

Lucien smiles and departs — 

And Aramis looks up at Jason. "Why do you hang back with me, M'sieu? Do you find me offensive?" 

Porthos *and* Jason cough — and Jason blinks rapidly and licks his lips. 

Porthos grins at *him* — and then turns to Jason. "You'd better answer quick, Jason. He gives a *limited* amount of time for questions like that." 

"Or... any questions?" 

Porthos shrugs. 

Jason hums. "I do love inquisitive young people —" 

"Do you fuck them?" 

Porthos *guffaws* — 

He looks like his *mother* when he does this — 

And Jason is staring. And licking his lips. 

Aramis raises an eyebrow.

Jason coughs again, into his fist. "Perhaps you would both like to join me in my suite...?" 

"Will you answer my questions then?" 

"*All* of them, Aramis — to the best of my ability." 

This is *still* a frustrating answer, but — Aramis is accustomed to it, at this point. He nods — 

Porthos, who is still laughing, rests his hand at the small of Aramis's back — 

And they enter Jason's sitting room. 

There are, again, no portraits or other art, but there are many small *things*, little objects and curios which *all* seem very powerful...

"Don't touch *anything* without asking first, Aramis," Porthos says. 

"I would not!" 

"That was a warning, *not* a comment on your training," Jason says. "I keep many of my most *irritating* enemies *imprisoned* in some few of these objects." 

"I." 

"Well. *Partially* in those objects. It's the safest prison for them, because I — and Etrigan, the fire-demon who shares my soul —" 

"I!" 

"I'll explain more of that later, if you'd like," Jason says, and seats himself at the round table closest to the *very* tall fireplace, which has a blazing fire in it which doesn't seem to be heating the room in the least. "For now, the important thing is that Etrigan and I are never entirely unaware of what's going on in this room." 

"Even when you *sleep*?" 

Jason smiles wryly — 

And Porthos leads Aramis to the table and pulls out a chair for him. 

"Thank you, friend Porthos." 

Porthos grins as they sit. "Any time. *All* the time." 

Aramis flashes him a smile and turns back to Jason. "What does this smile mean!" 

"Neither Etrigan nor I sleep. Ever." 

"You." 

"We have too many enemies for that and, while the vast majority of those enemies are far, far weaker than we are...?" And Jason raises a teaching eyebrow. 

"It does not take *strength* to catch a sleeping enemy. Only skill and *cunning*." 

"Just so. Now, to your other questions." 

Aramis folds his hands together on the table. "Yes?"

"First, I do, occasionally, make love to young people. They've almost always been my students, however —" 

"You demand sex from your students?" 

"Oh, murdering *boggarts*, no. Ah..." And Jason smiles ruefully. "When I *have* had sexual relationships with my students, they've rather demanded it from *me*. Though I will not claim not to have desired it deeply in every case." 

"And manipulated it?" 

Jason's smile grows ferocious. "You know all *about* that, don't you." 

"Yes," Aramis says, and raises an eyebrow. 

"*When* I manipulate my students, I am doing so to teach them a lesson. A *magical* lesson. I am *not* doing so in order to reach down their trousers. Additionally, I should make it clear that *most* of the students I've had over the past five hundred years or so have been *adults*." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. "I will think on this!" 

"Please do —" 

"And why you were hanging back?"

"You are anything but offensive, Aramis. I have been watching you through my mirrors nearly since Porthos began the process of fleecing that odious little man who called himself your father like a sheep." 

"You... what?" 

Jason hums. "If you would...?" And he gestures to the large, well-made mirror with the beautifully-carved frame on the wall to Aramis's left. 

Aramis looks — 

And, abruptly, he's looking at *Julio Ortiz*. He is bruised all over his face — 

He is missing *teeth* — 

His face is *swollen* — but. 

Aramis recognizes his easy, practiced form on a horse. 

The horse he's riding is obviously old — a male roan without much spirit — but he is responding well to the commands Julio is giving him with his knees and feet. 

Julio's right hand is completely bandaged. 

There is little enough in his saddlebags —

And the view changes to the road he is on. He is traveling to the southwest, judging by the sun — where they had originally been traveling, and where Aramis knows the man has *friends*. 

Aramis growls.

"Tell me, Aramis," Jason says. "Would you like for that man to... come to harm?" 

Porthos will give him everything he desires. 

And — 

Having *that* thought right now — 

Having that thought for Jason's *question* — 

He had *saved* Julio from Porthos already!

Saved him from being — being *savaged* — 

Aramis swallows — 

"Jason..." And Porthos's tone is a warning one — 

"I — no. *No*," Aramis says, and bangs his fist on the table.

"Aramis?"

"Friend Porthos, your Uncle, he is *testing* me, mm?" 

"I —" 

"It did seem only fair..." 

"*Jason*." 

"*No*," Aramis says again, and covers Porthos's hand with his own. "I did not wish for Porthos to *savage* Julio Ortiz. I did not wish for Porthos to *torture* him, for all that he would surely have tortured *me*— perhaps to death — if he had won me in that card game —" 

Porthos snarls — 

"I am a better man than this! And I do not think friend Porthos should toy with his food like a *cat*." 

Porthos *stops* snarling — and licks his lips. "Uh. Aramis?" 

"If he *is* to die? To die before he can meet with his friends in the *clergy* and the *gentry* and, perhaps, regain some measure of his wealth and health and *dignity*? Then it should be quick, and neat, and *quiet*. As *I* wished to kill him *myself* when he first began threatening my *mother*." 

Porthos *grunts* — 

And Jason raises an eyebrow. "Why didn't you?" 

"He had his servants with him, Pablo and Serge, and it was clear to me that Serge had at least as much skill with a blade as *I* did." Aramis bares his teeth. "He did not let them leave his *side*. I bided my time. I was still doing so on the night he chose to gamble me away — though I must confess that my plans had begun to focus more on *escape* than killing. Now. Do you wish for him to die?"

"Are you truly indifferent, Aramis...?" 

"My Porthos broke him," Aramis says, and refuses to let himself think of anything but what he wishes to say. "My Porthos took away his *strut*. His *pride*. His *belief* in himself. My Porthos left only a *shell* of a man. Were he to look in my eyes now? He would cringe like a man who has been *whipped*. He is, as I have said, an *irrelevancy*." 

Jason smiles broadly. "Very well," he says, and there's a sound of a body falling to the ground from the direction of the mirror. 

Oh... so quick? So easily?

Aramis looks, and shadows are guiding the riderless roan to a nearby meadow. Other shadows are making a *shroud* around Julio — he is gone! "I... he is truly dead?"

"Oh, yes. And disposed of where *no* one from this sphere will ever find him." Jason nods to the mirror. "The shadows will make sure that the horse doesn't wander into danger until I can retrieve him."

Aramis licks his lips, and he *wants* to be done with this — 

He wants to be *quit* of this — but. 

This man had threatened his *mother*. 

He needs to know. "How did he die?" 

"I forced a shadow down his throat and squeezed his heart until it burst," Jason says. "It was, as you specified, very quick." 

Ohh...

Porthos squeezes his hand — 

Aramis smiles — Aramis *grins*! But — 

Porthos is not breathing well, for some reason. 

"My Porthos? Are you well?" 

Porthos shudders beside him and turns his hand so that he can twine his fingers with Aramis's own. "Is this all right?" 

Oh... 

"It's all right if it isn't —" 

Aramis smiles and squeezes Porthos's hand —

And Porthos grins back, wild and free and thrilled. Beautiful. 

Aramis flushes and ducks his head, just a little — 

Porthos rumbles — and jerks his head toward Jason. "He avoided part of your question, you know." 

"Porthos —" 

"*Oh* — why did you hold yourself *back*? What is *wrong*?" 

Jason glares at Porthos — 

Porthos lolls his tongue at him — 

Jason *sighs*. "I'm cursed for finding that *endearing*." 

Cursed — 

And he had said he shared his *soul* — 

The *All*-Mother had said — 

Jason smiles wryly. "I believe young Aramis is coming to a few conclusions of his own." 

"*You* are the one who cursed the family!"

Jason inclines his head. 

"But *why*?"

"Aramis —" 

"No, my Porthos, let *him* —" And then Aramis *stops* — 

Realizes what he'd said — 

What he has now said multiple *times* — he flushes hard. 

"Aramis...?" And Jason raises an eyebrow. "I *will* answer your questions to the best of my ability." 

"He truly will, Aramis..." 

"I... I..." 

*Porthos* will give him everything he desires.

Aramis licks his lips — and meets Porthos's gaze.

Porthos's *worried* gaze. 

He smiles ruefully. 

And Porthos blinks — and nods. "You're thinking about — what you said." 

"Yes, Porthos." 

Porthos licks his lips. "I won't. I won't take it as a reason to... take *liberties*." 

"I know this of you!" 

Porthos rumbles — stops. "It's all *right*, Aramis. You've had a really *eventful* few days — few *weeks*, I'd wager —" 

"I — yes —" 

"Your emotions are... are all twisted around —" 

"I am not ruled by my emotions!" 

Porthos stares at him. 

With wide, wide eyes. 

Porthos licks his *lips* — 

Aramis *growls* — 

Jason clears his throat delicately. 

"*M'sieu* — what is your last name?" 

"Blood, but —" 

"M'sieu *Blood*. *I* believe Porthos *is* mine. Am I *wrong*." 

"That is not a question we can answer." 

"*Damnit* — no. You cannot answer the question *yet*?" 

Jason inclines his head. 

Porthos shudders — 

Aramis narrows his eyes. "Do you fear answering this question, Porthos?" 

Porthos growls and stares into him with *hot* green eyes. "I'm afraid of answering it beforetime, Aramis." 

"But there *is* a right time?" 

Porthos growls and growls — "I can't answer that question. I want to. *Badly*."

Aramis inhales sharply and nods. "I believe you." 

"Thank you for that." 

"I *also* believe you *are* my Porthos — you will give no response to this! Your breath quickens when I refer to you as such. You blush. You offer greater *intimacy*. You *smile*. You are my Porthos, and I will call you this. Unless you have some objection?"

Porthos *rumbles* a growl — there is such light behind his eyes! "None whatsoever, Aramis."

"Good!" And Aramis turns back to Jason. "Now tell me why you cursed the family who *loves* you!" 

Jason sighs ruefully. "You understand that I *cannot* tell you the wording of the curse...?" 

"*Yes*, M'sieu!" 

"You *could* call me Jason...?" 

"No!" 

Porthos snorts. "You have to earn that, Uncle." 

"Yes, yes he does!" 

Jason sighs again. "Very well. I will do my *best*. When I met Treville — Porthos's father, that is — I was in the process of dying in *pieces* in his turnip fields. This was on the old estates not far outside of Paris, if you're familiar...?" 

"I had *heard* that Treville had many properties, but I did not realize that he kept a manor house so close to Paris..." 

"Oh, yes. It's not one of his favourites, because there's just not enough *space* in the main house for Treville to make certain that the *entirety* of his pack can live in the lavish comfort he desires for us. But, it's what he had at the time, along with rooms in the city proper. The Treville name had not yet been raised so high. In any event, I was dying. The Jarka demons I had been warring against — not *especially* wisely, as I had not been at my most powerful at the beginning of our battle — were all dead around me. 

"Etrigan was dying *within* me. Neither of us were capable of healing ourselves — despite the fact that the nature of our functional immortality makes it possible for us to heal from, oh, all *sorts* of things. So, I used *some* of the last dribs and drabs of my energy to send out a call for help — knowing full well that the first mage or magical being to 'come to my aid' could decide to simply imprison or enslave me, instead. 

"I've never wanted to die. 

"Still, it was Treville who came to me. An *incredibly* young Treville —" 

"He was a *boy*?" 

"He might as well have been. He was an earth-mage who'd communed enough with the All-Mother to know a few *basic* things about the worlds of magery, but he barely let me tell him *anything* about myself before he was slashing his arm open and demanding I drink and thus heal myself. I asked him how old he was. He said he was twenty-*two*, and knew everything he needed to know about me by my *scents*. And when I stared at him in *horror* for that, he told me not to worry — that all *sorts* of brave men pissed themselves in the middle of battle."

Aramis *coughs* — 

"Yes, that was rather my reaction, too. Which *hurt*. And made me *bleed* more. At which point Treville gripped me by the *hair* and *forced* my lips to his arm. And... well. I'm a blood-mage far more, far *deeper*, than anything else. 

"The blood took us both. The blood made *demands* of us both. The healing began without my consent, and was wildly unpleasant for both of us — but especially, I daresay, for him. My mothers before me did their level best to take his *life*-force to heal me." 

"Oh, no!" 

"*Happily*, I was strong enough *soon* enough to resist that, and push him away from myself. Would you believe he *resisted*?" 

"I." 

"I asked him what the bloody hell he thought he was *doing*, and where his sense of self-preservation was, and other questions of that ilk. He laughed and said he'd planned to ask me — *ask*, not bind — to teach him about his magery once I was on my feet again. And that's when it happened." 

"What?" Aramis leans in. "What happened?" 

"He fell in love with my absolute *arsehole* of a father, Aramis," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. 

"I!" 

Jason laughs — and flourishes. "It was too sudden, too *complete*, for me to even be *upset* about it." 

"Are you certain of this?" 

"Oh, yes. I was utterly *besotted* with the laughing fool in the churned, bloody, offal-streaked, cursed-turnip-strewn, *pissy* mud." He sighs. "I still am, of course. And with the rest of this bloody pack, *too*. But that came later." 

"What happened *then*?" 

"Well, the inevitable result of being slightly *more* than half-dead and *utterly* in love: I decided to craft a *present* for this fascinating madman. A magical *gift*. Now, due to various unpleasant events in my youth and beyond, I am cursed in *many* ways. *One* of the curses on me is that I can't offer *blessings*... as opposed to carefully-worded curses —" 

"Oh! But..." 

"*But*, yes. While Treville and I were helping each other limp to the manor proper, I put time and *effort* into the wording of my curse. I rather made him think I was in more pain than I was in, or perhaps that I was more close-mouthed. 

"In the end, though, we were together, and washing ourselves down in Treville's own sitting room, and I had the wording perfect. I made him look into my eyes, I called on *all* of my power — far more than I should have when I was already that weakened — and I spoke my curse.

"Treville knew what I was doing almost immediately. He smiled into my eyes so *wonderingly*... 

"He reached for my *face*..." Jason shudders hard. "I felt my power be... taken. Held like *reins* with me as the hapless beast being *ridden*. Treville asked me what was happening, but all I could do was utter the new last words of the curse in a voice not my own. In the voice of the creature which had been created by the desecration of holy ground by my warring with — and killing of — the Jarka demons."

"Oh. I..." 

"Yes, Aramis?" 

"I have many questions." 

"It's *entirely* possible that I can answer a few of them," Jason says, and smiles wryly. 

"I — the turnip field was holy ground?" 

"Treville had made love to one of his brothers there — Kitos — not long after the spring planting." 

Aramis blinks — 

Blinks — 

"I would like to spend a great deal of time studying religion. *Religions*, *plural*." 

Jason smiles happily. "I will help you with that with *great* pleasure, Aramis." 

Because Porthos is his. *His*. But — "You said that *Treville* had said he *smelled* your honesty. He was born a werewolf?" 

"No," Jason says, and smiles ruefully. "He was one of the earth-mages who are gifted — or cursed, depending on who you ask — with enhanced senses and a certain canine je ne sais quoi." 

"I — *when* did he become —" 

"I cannot answer that question." 

It was the curse. It *must* have been the curse!

But — he had *broken* the curse. Porthos had *said* so. That was how he came to wed!

Aramis licks his lips and looks back and forth between Porthos and Jason. "My Porthos, is your father *still* a werewolf?" 

"Yes, he is, Aramis," he says, and smiles ruefully. He — 

He could see the path of Aramis's thoughts. 

Every time he thinks he can understand the *shape* of the curse, he is pushed *away* from it! This is *infuriating*!

Porthos strokes his *cheek* — 

"*Porthos* —" 

"Aramis. Would you like to talk to Jason about sending a message to your mother?"

Oh... oh.

"Perhaps you would like to send a note?" And Jason pulls writing materials out of nothingness. 

Aramis's hands twitch — 

"You can tell her anything you want to, Aramis," Porthos says, and squeezes Aramis's *shoulder*. "*Everything* you want to." 

"I — yes, my Porthos," Aramis says, and pulls the parchment closer. 

He will tell her *everything*.


	6. A little riding, a little lore, a little getting-to-know-you.

At the stables, he checks — Éventreur and Matthieu are gone. Éventreur, he knows, is *very* old for a horse, but he still has *much* spirit. Being housed in a stable owned by witches with healing powers — with a direct connection to the All-Mother! — makes a difference. 

Matthieu is the leggy black Porthos had introduced him to as Odile's favourite, spirited and strong, and devoted to her. She had raised him from a foal. 

Aramis nods his approval and chooses Gabrielle — a large, gentle, and *very* loving bay.

Porthos smiles. "Yeah? You're sure?"

"Oh, yes, my Porthos. Already she has begun to gain a bit of extra weight, despite the exercise you have *told* me that the stableboys give her," Aramis says, and *looks* at Porthos. 

Porthos laughs. "It's true, but that's mostly because Jason is constitutionally *incapable* of not spoiling horses." 

"Oh — yes?" And Aramis allows Porthos to help him saddle Gabrielle — 

She is so excited!

She knows she will run today!

Aramis gives her many kisses — 

Purrs and promises —-

Porthos lets him do *most* of the tasks necessary for taking her out for a ride himself!

Aramis *looks* at Porthos — 

And Porthos is gazing at him... softly. Wonderingly. 

Aramis *could*, he thinks, use still other words. 

He will not. 

Not yet. But... "You like seeing me with horses." 

"I like seeing you happy, Aramis," Porthos says, low and rumbling and so *solid*, so — 

Aramis grins and mounts — 

Porthos blinks — "Oi, wait, I've got to get my Léon ready —" 

"You are too *slow*, my Porthos. I will not ride far," Aramis says, and takes Gabrielle out. 

Porthos laughs and works quickly and well. 

Aramis rides to the beginning of the path and reins up, looking around, smelling the air — 

Wondering where Treville will be taking his dangerous little cub to shoot...

Do the other, non-military horses mind the sound of guns? 

Perhaps they go quite far...?

The Trevilles have *much* land in France, but it is said that they allow a great deal of the *forests* to be hunted by the common people, so long as they do not take so much.

What of the flatter lands? 

Do they raise livestock? It would be *prudent*...

"Right, then, what are *you* thinking on," Porthos says, riding up beside him. He is guiding his Léon with his knees and pulling on his gloves as he goes. 

Aramis smiles at him. "How you can make me as strong a rider as *you* are." 

"I will *happily* keep you on horseback as much as *possible*. But...?" 

"Ah, it is true, that is not what I was thinking. I was wondering... are the non-military horses accustomed to the sounds of the guns?" 

"They truly are, Aramis. We raise the young ones with it as soon as we can. Of course, some of the horses never do get used to it, and those we sell." 

"To *good* people." 

"Of course," Porthos says, and grins. "No one dares abuse *our* animals." 

"This is *well*!" 

"That's *right*." 

"It is said in Paris that your father allows his lands to be hunted by the common people. Is this so?" 

"Oh, yeah. His best friend growing up had to poach just to feed his family — that would be Uncle Kitos. Daddy wants as few people as possible living in fear of the hangman." 

"Oh!"

"We also give people pastureland and all that. We have to keep the young ones away from those properties, though." 

"Yes? Why?" 

Porthos smiles wryly at him as they ride. "Young werewolves are basically incapable of resisting fat, lazy, penned-up meat on the hoof with no protection other than, say, low fences and sleepy shepherds." 

"Oh... then you do *not* raise meat of your own?" 

"Oh, we do. We *have* to. And we do our *best* to *drill* the prohibition about staying away from those lands into the younger ones, so that when they do shift, they'll feel at least a little hesitation. Even when the wind shifts and brings them all the delicious scents."

Aramis nods. "Does this... work?" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "Most of the time. *I* still went after the livestock *four* times —" 

"Oh, no!" 

"Oh, *yes*. We had to pay off three shepherds. The last one understood, and just waited out the carnage." 

"I." 

"Mm?" 

"This is when your parents began working to instill harsher lessons?" 

"And harsher punishments, aye. They teamed up with the de la Fères, because Athos — Olivier, then — was having the same troubles at the same time. Thomas, who's only a little more than a year younger than Athos, did a *lot* better than we did." 

"What were the *punishments*?" 

"We weren't allowed *outside* after we attacked the livestock the fourth time. Not for a *week*." 

"Oh. That does not sound —" 

"Too bad?" Porthos rumbles a laugh. "You can't keep a wolf inside, Aramis. You just can't. We go out on the rainiest days of the year, the snowiest, the coldest..." Porthos shakes his head. "We *need* it. We need our paws to touch *earth*. We need the wind to ruffle through our *fur* — or the equivalent of it. We're the All-Mother's children, and, well, that's how we work. Our parents *imprisoned* us." 

Aramis blinks and blinks — "It sounds as though you were close to going *mad*, my Porthos!" 

"Well, they didn't leave us *alone*. *That's* something the All-Mother wouldn't have allowed. But... yeah. The next time we shifted? The lesson had *set*. And all our younger siblings remembered our scents that week, and managed *pretty* well not to attack the livestock themselves." 

Aramis shivers and pats and strokes Gabrielle. "It is said the eldest siblings suffer for all the sins of those who come after." 

"That's true enough, in its way," Porthos says. "Parents have to *learn* *how* to be parents. And *our* parents had to learn how to be the parents of young werewolves." 

Because it was the *curse* that had made Tréville, who was already an adult — if a young one — into a werewolf. It must have been. 

And...

He must have changed Amina into this!

Or...

Hm. How to ask this question? "My Porthos..." 

"Mm? What is it?" And Porthos leads them in the direction of what looks like open ground. 

"Is it possible to *make* someone else a werewolf? If they are not an earth-mage, I mean." 

"Oh." Porthos licks his lips and looks as though he wishes to *fidget*. 

"My Porthos —" 

"It's possible. It's — it's *easy*. Werewolves have to be *careful*, Aramis, *because* it's so easy. We just have to mix our saliva with the blood of whoever we wish to turn –" 

"Like the lore says!" 

"Right, yeah. So when we want to *kill* someone, we tend to use our *claws* to do it, as much as it's possible for us to do. If we have to use our teeth... well, then we have to get messy about things. Uh — no, you *absolutely* want to know." 

"Yes, I do!" 

"Right you are. If we have to use our teeth, then we have to make absolutely *sure* the target is dead. We have to practice, well, overkill. Tearing off their heads, opening their bellies, opening the big arteries in their thighs — or just ripping their legs off." 

"Oh..."

"Yeah. The turning happens *fast*, especially if you happen to be on or near holy ground at the time. And, once the person is turned, they heal from all their *wounds*." 

Aramis nods once. "This would be, at best, *inconvenient*." 

"Considering some of the arseholes we've had to go up against?" Porthos shakes his head. "The All-Mother *herself* warned us about this, and we've still messed up a few times over the years. If you're on holy ground... well. It's a rare wolf who manages to be fast *enough* with a tooth-kill on holy ground if that wolf is *also* in the middle of a big battle." 

"Oh! What happens then, my Porthos?" 

"Then the whole pack falls on the new wolf, no matter *what* else is happening, so they don't get *away*. Usually, they don't know how to shift, so we can dismember them quickly and let the All-Mother take them. Once, though..." 

"Yes? Yes?" 

Porthos strokes down over the scar on his face. "It was an assassination squad aimed at Henri. They had silver in their weapons and they were good at using them — I'm not the only one scarred from that attempt —" 

"What — why have I not heard —" 

"Henri doesn't *like* to publicize just how many attempts have been made on his life. Which... I think you can guess why?" 

Aramis blinks — but... 

Right now, the common people assume a status quo of peace with and *around* the supernatural beings in France. It is known that some few members of the nobility disagree with Henri's policies, and with how much power and distinction the Church has lost, and certainly it is a *heated* topic of discussion in the teashops and other places — 

But. 

No one is speaking of revolt. 

Aramis licks his lips. "You are opening a very wide world to me, my Porthos." 

"You're worthy of all of it." 

Aramis inhales sharply — 

Porthos winces — "I apologize —" 

"You will not apologize!" And Aramis stops, pets and soothes Gabrielle — 

He has been shouting too *much* — 

He must do *better* —- 

"I would like... to apologize for not being able to elaborate on what I said." 

Aramis *blushes* — no. 

*No*. 

"*You* did not set the curse." 

"Aramis —" 

"Even your Uncle Jason, who *did* set the curse, was not responsible for making it a curse which stopped all your *mouths*." 

"No, he *wasn't* —" 

"No. That was... what was it? *What* was the other being his warring created?"

"A powerful spirit of sorts which was tied to him, like a parasitic child to their parent." 

Aramis does his best not to *recoil* — 

"I smell that, and you're absolutely right. Consider it a warning, Aramis. You want to avoid doing *anything* untoward on holy ground." 

"How do I *know* what ground is holy and what ground is..." But. Hasn't he felt as though certain places he's passed through were *stronger* than others? More imbued with *power*? "I rescind that question." 

"All *right*, then." 

"Is the spirit *still* tied to your Uncle?" 

"Oh, no, no. The All-Mother freed him and Etrigan, and took the spirit into Herself so it wouldn't suffer — or make anyone *else* suffer. Then She cleansed the defiled holy ground. But —" 

"You have nothing to apologize for, my Porthos," Aramis says, and coos and purrs at Gabrielle — 

She steps lively for him!

Aramis praises her and keeps his *balance* — 

And Porthos is staring at him. Aramis can *feel* it. 

"My Porthos?" 

"You're already a fantastic rider..." 

"I thank you!" 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles. "I want to tell you everything. Everything in my *soul*." 

Oh... but. "You are teaching me patience, my Porthos," Aramis says, and smiles at him. "For this reason alone, my mother will love you." 

Porthos laughs, obviously shocked to have done so — 

Aramis grins —

And Porthos grins wide. "I think it's time to shake the hay off our horses' hooves..." 

"Oh!" And Aramis knows the grin on his face is *maniacal*, but perhaps his Porthos only sees a little of it before Gabrielle takes off in a gallop.


	7. It's always time to talk to mom.

Jason watches Aramis and Porthos ride for just a few more moments before doing the pass that will allow the wall-mirror to simply reflect again. And...

One of the reasons why he both respects the All-Mother and finds her utterly confounding is how she had *handled* the being that had come to such catastrophic life due to Jason's warring.

Well. The *other* being that had come to life due to Jason's warring. The *shadow*-being which exists in the spaces between him and Etrigan has yet to harm so much as a hair on the heads of any of the All-Mother's children. 

But the creature of his spilled blood and that of the Jarkas... 

Well, *that* being had made its first act of *existence* one of harm. And while it had clearly been an act of spite against its *living* creator, as opposed to against the Treville line, per *se*... 

Well, there was no arguing with the results. 

There had been a moment, as the words Jason was uttering stopped being his own, when Treville's beautiful eyes had widened — 

When the fingers on Jason's face had shaken — 

When he'd uttered Jason's name in *question* — and then the shift had taken him, violently and *quickly*, until it seemed the last syllables of the curse had barely left his mouth before the hulking, massive, silver and white *beast* had slammed him to the rugs — 

Pressed him *down* — 

Sniffed him *everywhere* — 

Sniffed his *throat* — and salivated on it. 

("What. Did you. Do to me.") The words had been... chewed out. 

Treville's breath had been hot on his face — 

Treville's eyes had been *wild* — ("*Answer*!" 

"The curse... got away from me —" 

"*Why* did you. Curse me?" 

"Because I could not bless you. I'm — *I'm* cursed. I apologize. I *apologize*. I wanted to give you a gift —"

"You...") And Treville had growled and shaken himself — 

Again and again — 

Paced away on all *fours*, despite not being in full-wolf-form — 

("Treville..." 

"Tell me. How to change back. Teach me!") 

Jason had panted — 

Ached to *touch* — but. He'd never *had* a werewolf student before. 

("I believe you must concentrate, Treville —"

"I'm *trying*!" 

"More than that. Deeper. You must try... you need not *reach* for the All-Mother, but —" 

"Oh — oh, I can feel..." 

"Yes?") 

And Treville had shifted back to human-form, naked and panting and — *grinning*. ("You *did* make me powerful!" 

"I —" 

"Stronger, healthier — longer-lived?" 

"Werewolves who avoid being beheaded with silver-laced weapons do tend to live quite long —" 

"Mm. I think I can manage that. You strengthened me *magically*, too,") he'd said, and *swaggered* across the room — 

Hauled Jason up off the floor and into his *arms* — 

("The All-Mother wants you to know that She expects you for a chat at your *earliest* convenience, Jason." 

"Oh, dear." 

"Not to worry,") Treville had said *breezily*. ("She's not angry. She just needs to speak to you about that creature who possessed you when you were trying to... well, not *bless* me, but — you know." 

"Yes, I —" 

"And about that.") 

Jason had blushed like a *boy* — 

("Thought so,") Treville had said and licked Jason all over his face before kissing him hard, kissing him *deeply* — 

Jason had shuddered and flushed and shuddered *more* — 

Treville had licked his way *out* of Jason's mouth — ("I can tell that's not a no, but...?"

"Bloody *hell*, man! I cursed your entire *line*!"

"*You* didn't do that. That — *thing* did. And it *couldn't* do it without working within the very beautiful *blessing* you *somehow* managed to place on my line despite me being an *arse* for the entire length of our acquaintance." 

"I — you'll have to be *careful* when you meet your mate, you —" 

"I won't be able to tell him — her? I suppose that's possible. I won't be able to tell them a damned thing about the curse except for, presumably, what they figure out for themselves —" 

"No, no, I — even then, Treville, you have to keep the truth of the curse and what they are to you from them. You can't tell them *anything*." 

"What, *ever*?"

"Well, no, if you can manage to make them fall in love with you despite the restrictions on your honesty —" 

"*Then* I can tell them, and our children will be able to tell *their* mates, and so on?" 

"I — yes —" 

"Right, then, this will go fine,") Treville had said and tried to tug him back in for more *kisses* — 

("*Treville*!"

"Mm?") 

Jason had stared — he remembers this *very* clearly. 

("You need me to slow down."

"I need you to — I turned you into a *werewolf*!"

"Well, again, it was that *thing* outside that did it, and two, the All-Mother is thrilled about it — She said something about turning Trevilles on *other spheres* into werewolves —" 

"I —" 

"And *three*, I was already a witch with more than a little bit of dog in me. You'll note that the growling and snarling hasn't alerted my staff of anything untoward...?") 

Jason had stared again. 

("Now about that mouth of yours, and what it *could* be doing instead of worrying —"

"If you or your descendants let the truth slip to your mates before —" 

"Then they'll leave us, and we'll *both* be deprived of the love of our lives, and that'll be bloody *horrible*. I *caught* that. *Believe* me,") Treville had said, and smiled... wryly. He'd looked older than his twenty-two years then. 

('Treville...?" 

"Don't ever think I'm cavalier about love, Jason. As an example, I *refuse* to treat what *you're* giving to me *lightly* —") 

Jason had *grunted* —

("I'm frightened, Jason. I am. But — I don't ever let that kind of thing hold me back. It's not *in* me to do that. It's not how I *work*."

"No...?") 

Another wry smile. ("They call me 'Fearless' — among other things. It's not *true*... but it's true enough, most of the time."

"Oh — *Treville*." 

"I think any man could be Fearless with someone like you in his life,") Treville had said, and *caressed* Jason's ever-beardless cheek, his jaw — ("I think a man could face all *sorts* of demons with a man like you at his side.") 

And that... Jason had cocked his head to the side. ("I share my soul with an exceedingly powerful — and stroppy — fire-demon.")

The Treville in his memories is laughing about how Jason has finally explained the delicate bouquet of burning stone, and is *demanding* that they get back to the kissing. 

The Treville in his doorway is snickering and swaggering like he *mostly* only does these days to drive Porthos up a *wall* — 

And to remind Jason just *what* he finds charming. 

Jason sighs. "Give me *good* news, amant." 

"Well... good news as in *truly* good news, or good news as in balm for the black-hearted bastard in you?" 

Jason glares at him. 

Treville snickers and kisses his cheek. "I did, in fact, have a moment's pause in my heart — and loins — when you said you shared your soul with a fire-demon." 

"*Really*." 

"Oh, yes. I hadn't been very complimentary of the fellow —" 

"Ceridwen's *cock* —" 

"And, speaking of cocks, I wanted to put mine *inside* you —" 

"It was the beardlessness, wasn't it." 

"I had certain reflexes, lover. But in any event, I didn't know if I would be sticking my dear, beloved cock into an *oven*." 

_You'd turned Blood into a desperate, stammering fool. The entertainment value of that alone was enough to make me think highly of you,_ Etrigan says, in a voice that is, as ever, the rasp and *pressure* of unimaginable heat on stone. 

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Treville snickers and hugs him. "Thank you for that, Etrigan. I was rather reeling myself. It's not every day you find yourself with an immortal mage to talk onto your lap." 

Jason splutters — 

Treville nips Jason's ear. "What's got you dragging up the old memories, mm? I could feel you across the manor." 

"I... would think it would be obvious?" 

"So Aramis *did* suss out that you were the source of the curse." 

"Easily. I —" 

"You're worried." 

"*Desperately*." 

Treville squeezes him and pulls back just enough that they can meet each other's gaze. "You think the boy's mind will move faster than his heart." 

"I..." 

"You do." 

"I *don't* know what will happen should he *realize* that the only piece missing is that he needs to fall in *love* with Porthos... before he is in love with Porthos." 

Treville winces. "I don't, either. I asked the All-Mother about it years ago." 

"Mm, yes. She told me," Jason says, and smiles wryly. "And neglected to give me a *solid* answer."

Treville smiles back ruefully. "Exactly. It depends on the mate in question. It could drive him *away*..." Treville growls. "Amina was just as canine as I had been when we met. She smelled me coming and *liked* it. Thomas and Jeannette... well, we would've married the two of them even if they *hadn't* turned out to be mated —" 

"*Treville* —" 

"I know, I know," he says, and steps back. "We thought the same things about Porthos and Olivier, and you told us again and again to wait, that we'd *truly* know when they matured..." 

"And you *did*."

Treville nods slowly. Noncommittally. 

"Amant...?" 

"I... I can't help thinking of contingency measures." 

"What happens in the worst case scenario." 

"What happens *after* the worst case scenario," Treville says, and jabs a finger toward the ground. 

"You plan on urging your Porthos to cleave to Athos and d'Artagnan." 

"Can I do anything else? He already loves them —" 

"And he loves them as they are, amant." 

"What does that —" 

"He has spent his *life* preparing himself for his mate, and has thus held himself *apart* from other lovers —" 

"No — *shit* —" 

"*You* didn't, because you were not raised that way —" 

"But. Amina and I damned well raised *all* our children that way. *Fuck*." 

Jason smiles ruefully. "The curse wouldn't have it any other way." 

Treville winces hard. "We had to prepare them." 

"You did." 

"Athos and d'Artagnan are mated, and have built a relationship with Porthos as their *third*. With Porthos as — not quite a part of what they have." 

Jason inclines his head. "And it's not quite as bad as all that, amant. They *are* brothers, and lovers, and we *all* know what a powerful *military* unit they are." 

Treville frowns and nods. "Amina already knew this." 

"I'd say so, yes." 

"Which is why she's climbing the *walls* —" Treville scrubs a hand down over his face. "What about the messenger we sent to the mother?" 

Jason turns to the mirror and does a pass, concentrating on Hubert — there. 

He's sitting in a small, well-organized office and being *braced* by a small, lovely woman in silks. She has long auburn hair, wide blue eyes, and it's abundantly clear where Aramis's ridiculous beauty comes from. 

"Unreasonable beauty, really," Treville says. 

Jason *looks* at him. 

"You *know* what *I* looked like when I was fourteen. For that matter, you know what *you* looked like when *you* were fourteen." 

"Hm. True. 'Unreasonable' is a good word for it." 

"What are they saying?" 

Jason pours slightly more power into the conjuring — 

"— is my son *now*." 

Hubert is sweating. "Mademoiselle, when I left, he was about to go riding with our Porthos, as I've said —" 

"On lands that are a *week's* *punishing* ride from Paris, and yet you claim to have left mere hours ago," d'Herblay says, and the *rage* in her eyes is clear. 

The only question is *when* she'll use that bell-pull to call in muscle to enforce her will. 

"Please, Mademoiselle —" 

"Be. *Silent*." 

Jason looks to Treville — 

"*Right* now, yes," he says, and neatens his beard and moustache before pulling on his years of power and authority as a Kingsman. "I'm ready." 

Jason arms and armors himself, opens a portal with the mirror, and steps through — Treville right behind him. 

d'Herblay stands and reaches for the bell-pull — 

Treville raises his hands. "I don't know if you recognize me, Mademoiselle, but I'm Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville, and this is my brother and lover Jason Blood. We're *mostly* here to confirm everything Hubert is saying —" 

"If all he is saying is true, then *why* have you not returned my son?" 

Treville squeezes Hubert's shoulder. "Because, bluntly, we'd like to give him more of a chance to fall in love with my son Porthos." 

Hubert blushes and nods — 

Jason inclines his head — 

And d'Herblay lifts her chin and narrows her eyes — and taps the small sheaf of parchment in front of her on the desk with one long fingernail. "My son believes this Porthos already belongs to him." 

"He does. Your son is *my* son's mate, Mademoiselle. Porthos will not ever love anyone as much as he loves Aramis."

d'Herblay narrows her eyes even more for a moment — "My son does not know this." 

"No, he doesn't. There is a curse on me and my line, Mademoiselle. We are strong, healthy, long-lived — but we are werewolves. We will each and every one of us someday meet our true mates, but we cannot tell them that they *are* our mates, or what they mean to us until such time as they are already in love with us. If we *do* tell them before that point, they will turn away from us forever — whether or not they *wish* to — and they will *never* be able to love us." 

"This is quite a terrible curse," d'Herblay says, and sits down, once more. And then she studies them. 

Hubert scrambles to his feet and moves to stand behind Treville and Jason in the tiny office. 

Treville squeezes Hubert's shoulder again before moving to stand before the desk. 

To Jason's eyes, he looks positively naked without his pistol and rapier, but there hadn't been time for him to arm himself, and Jason can't help but appreciate those times when he can be seen as Treville's strong right hand. 

It settles something, deep within. 

After long moments, d'Herblay nods. "Which of you discerned that the way to my son's heart was through the stables?" 

"Porthos himself," Jason says. "He cannot help but be utterly focused on Aramis's needs and desires." 

d'Herblay steeples her fingers and crosses her legs. "Both of you are mages, on top of... everything else." 

Jason and Treville incline their heads — 

And d'Herblay reveals a spark of power of her own as she examines them quite deftly for lies and dissembling. 

"We will not lie to you," Treville says, leaving himself open. 

"Why is this? Do you believe I can make my son fall in love with yours?" 

Jason smiles wryly. "We do not believe anyone can *make* Aramis do *anything* he is not absolutely willing to do... but..." 

"We have no intention of coming between the two of you, Mademoiselle. We *believe* in family. In *pack*, more properly," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"Show me your wolves, please — or can you, without losing control?" 

"I can, but —" 

"I am not a wolf, Mademoiselle," Jason says, and inclines his head. "The curses on me make it impossible for me to be altered into something so... life-aspected, for want of a better term." 

d'Herblay raises an eyebrow *high* — 

Studies Jason more *deeply* — and then nods once. 

"I see. Among my people, you would be both feared and treasured." 

Jason hums. "I was... given that impression from the one Rom student I've taken." 

d'Herblay rears back. "Rom teach their *own*." 

Jason holds up two fingers. "I think we can agree, Mademoiselle, that that can become somewhat difficult to do when the ruling governments decide on a program of extermination."

d'Herblay bares her teeth for a moment — and then turns away until she has her control back. When she turns back, her expression is as waxen as a mask. "You have my apologies. I would like to know what became of your student." 

"No apologies are needed, Mademoiselle. And Eon chose to leave this sphere for one with a Britain which treated its Rom peoples with more justice and fairness."

She blinks again — "Such places exist...?" 

Jason spreads his hands. "I have been walking the spheres for over five centuries now, Mademoiselle. As near as I've been able to tell, they are numberless. As near as I've been able to *tell*, new spheres come into being with every choice *made*." 

"And yet you choose to remain here." 

"I am a man with a home, a family, and a *surfeit* of love." 

d'Herblay turns back to Treville. "What sort of life do you intend to give my son?"

"He's expressed a desire to become a soldier. The *offer* will be made to him to become a Kingsman —" 

"To become a werewolf." 

"Yes." 

"To spend his life... mated to your son." 

"Yes." 

"To have no children of his *own*." 

"Not necessarily," Treville says, and smiles warmly. "The eldest members of my pack — Me, my mate Amina; my brothers Jason, Kitos, Reynard, and Laurent de la Fère; and Laurent's mate Marie-Angelique — are *all* sexually involved, Mademoiselle. While Laurent's youngest Selene bears his name, she's actually Kitos's child." 

d'Herblay raises her eyebrow again. "And whom do you hope to have my son impregnate?" 

"Odile and Selene are both his approximate age, Mademoiselle, and I believe he mentioned finding Odile's personality agreeable when they met. On the other hand, my Jeannette... ah... captured his attention when he saw her portrait." 

For a moment, d'Herblay's expression is pinched. 

Treville scratches in front of his ear. "Jeannette's pregnant with my first grandchild now, Mademoiselle. It's... possible that I'm... nesting, a little." 

"How would your *Porthos* feel about your nesting, sir?" 

"If I may, Mademoiselle?" And Jason raises two fingers again. 

d'Herblay *looks* at him. 

Treville coughs into his hand — 

Hubert tries to wedge himself into a corner — 

Jason stands firm. 

Relatively. 

"Go on," d'Herblay says, at last. 

"Porthos has grown up as a werewolf forced to repress his instincts, his *self*, for life in larger society — which he resents. As Aramis and Lucien — Porthos's next-eldest sibling — were discussing earlier, Porthos and Treville have a *great* deal in common. Porthos is, on the whole, more serious-minded and cautious than Treville was at that age, but they are *identical* when it comes to their feelings about *pack*." 

"And so Porthos has been fucking *his* brothers and sisters?" 

Oh, very good... "In a word? Yes. However, there has been too much of an age-difference between Porthos and his *blood*-siblings for those relationships to become very serious." 

"And his relationships with the brothers and sisters to whom he is *not* related by blood?" 

"Quite close, Mademoiselle. But, you must understand, there has always been something holding Porthos apart from literally *every* other lover, and that something is the knowledge that he was *meant* to find his mate someday. It is the same with *all* of the Treville children." 

She turns back to Treville with her eyebrow up — 

And Treville smiles ruefully. "It's true." 

"You don't like this." 

"If the curse isn't broken each and every time... then my children are doomed to broken hearts. I'd like to be able to believe that they could have happiness without their mates, but I'm forced to admit that Amina and I have made that difficult for them at *best*." 

d'Herblay cocks her head to the side. "You regret how you've raised your children." 

"Wouldn't any parent want to protect their child from pain? Of course we thought we were doing just that by making sure they knew the curse backwards and forwards, making sure they would be prepared for what they'd have to *do* — and *not* do — *when* they met their mates —" 

"And — of course it was guaranteed," d'Herblay says, and nods slowly. 

"Yes," Treville says. "Just the same, we should've been more careful to leave their minds and hearts *open* —" 

"And make them think that meeting their mates would be less important than it *is*, sir?" 

"Please, call me —" 

"No," d'Herblay says. "You seem to be laboring under the misconception that you had a *choice* in how you raised your children." 

*Jason* coughs into his fist — 

Hubert squeaks — 

And Treville stares — but recovers quickly enough. "You believe we did not." 

"I *know* you did not. You are worried — frightened — because my Aramis is not yet in love with your Porthos and you feel that time is running out, yes?" 

"Of course." 

"You feel, furthermore, that your Porthos *should* have the chance to bounce easily into another love-match if he loses his *mate* —" 

"Not — not *easily* —" 

"I *know* that my Aramis will not recover from losing his mate, whether or not he has fallen in love with him *yet*. I *know* that this is something that moves beyond mere affairs, mere dalliances —" 

"I was not *speaking* of dalliances —" 

"And beyond even *brotherhood*, *sir*." 

Treville rears *back* — 

d'Herblay raises *both* her eyebrows. 

Jason sighs happily. "So, the *other* thing we're here for —" 

"*Jason*, *wait* —" 

"Amant, just *admit* that she's right —" 

"There's nothing *lesser* about brotherhood!" 

"And are you saying that Amina *doesn't* come first? *All* the time?" 

"I..." 

"Oh, what *is* it that *she* says," Jason says, and taps his lip with his finger. "'Make it good, now'...?" 

Treville flushes — 

Breathes deep — 

And *bows* to d'Herblay. "You're absolutely right; I apologize; I'm an arse, and, before you ask, I will be confessing all to my Amina-love so that she can beat some sense into me, too." 

"Why didn't you bring her...?" 

And Jason is about to say that she wasn't *with* him when he was looking in on d'Herblay, but — 

"She's with the chatelaine, going over what needs to be done to make the family ready for a trip to Paris tomorrow. I was getting in the way, so she sent me to see why Jason was fretting about the curse and making everyone within *range* fret about the curse with him." 

d'Herblay blinks. "You're all... linked?" 

"We are —" 

"And my son will be, as well, should he choose to become a werewolf."

"That's right —" 

"He will *never* not know his mate's mind." 

"Not unless he doesn't *want* to, Mademoiselle. And even then, he'd have to put some effort into it." 

d'Herblay purrs, leaning back in her chair. 

Jason always *forgets* the priorities of spirit-mages. "There will be *no* way they do not know each other, Mademoiselle. The senses of werewolves are truly powerful. Aramis will know the *taste* of Porthos's emotions from across refuse-choked city *streets*."

"But he will never marry." 

"My son is a loving and generous and *open* man, Mademoiselle. If Aramis falls in love —" 

d'Herblay raises a hand. "This was not a criticism of your plan — or your hopes — gentlemen. My son was never meant to tie himself to only one person for the rest of his life. At the same time, he *requires* stability, and the knowledge and security of an *absolute* hierarchy where he is first in the heart of the lover who is first in his." 

Treville grins. "He'll have that — and then some." 

"*Oh*, yes, Mademoiselle." 

"One thing," d'Herblay says. "He is hesitating. He is not *aware* that he is hesitating, but he *is*." 

Treville raises his eyebrows. "He didn't strike me as a hesitant boy, Mademoiselle." 

d'Herblay taps the sheaf of parchment again. "His hesitation is written here. He says four separate times — in four different ways — that he wishes me to *meet* his Porthos." 

Treville grins — and then nods. "He needs his mother's approval of his choices." 

"I choose *everyone* he spends a significant amount of time with, gentlemen. Whether for his education, his recreation, or his *business*." 

Jason raises an eyebrow. "And yet he wanders the city..." 

"Far more than I wish him to do, yes. But he *will* have his freedom." 

Treville nods thoughtfully. "You're still the *final* authority." 

"Yes," she says, quietly and simply. 

Treville grins. "As it should be. We'll be arriving at our house in Paris early tomorrow afternoon, given what I know about how we travel in strength. Perhaps you'll let us send a carriage for you...?"

d'Herblay smiles wryly. "Did you truly think my son would allow me to languish in ignorance of riding...?" 

Treville bows and flourishes. "My mistake, Mademoiselle. We will *absolutely* send a mount for you at whatever time you wish." 

"Whenever my *son* arrives, sir." 

"As you say, Mademoiselle —" 

"Claudette, please." 

Treville grins like the boy a part of him will always be. "Then, truly, Claudette, I much prefer going by Treville. My Amina-love only calls me Jean-Armand when I misbehave." 

"And so she calls you this all the time...?" 

"Well..." 

d'Herblay turns to Jason. "And you, M'sieu Blood? How do you prefer to be known?" 

"By the name *Jason*, please, Claudette," Jason says, and bows. "Though I must confess that your son has yet to allow me my given name." 

d'Herblay — *Claudette* — hums. "My tricky boy is, occasionally, cautious when he can smell great power." 

"Very wise —" 

Claudette stands then, and gestures gently and *definitively* at the same time. "I must speak to Madame Margaud about tomorrow, gentlemen." 

They both bow again — 

Hubert bows *deeply* — 

"Until tomorrow, Claudette," Treville says, and smiles warmly. "I'll send your greetings to Aramis." 

"You'll *give* *this* to Aramis," she says, and hands him a single, folded sheet of parchment.

"That I will," Treville says, and tips the hat he isn't wearing. 

Jason opens the portal and brings them all through — 

Closes it — 

Pours Hubert a stiff drink and sends him down to the kitchen with the bottle — 

And then does the pass on the mirror that wll allow them to check on Aramis and Porthos — 

Who are absolutely in one of the south meadows, lying back side-by-side in the wildflowers and grass while their horses crop and wander idly. 

Treville sighs. "I feel better." 

"You've always felt better after a visit with a whore," Jason says. 

Treville coughs — 

"Damn. I have no *idea* whether our new pack-members would find that insensitive or *not*," Jason says, and frowns. 

"Let's tread gently, just in case." 

"Yes, I — fuck, I'm getting advice from a *barbarian* —" 

"I'm really just a wolf." 

"What have I *done* to myself?" 

"The extra weight hardly shows —" 

"The next time you're feeling lonely, amant, please go bugger a nest of fire ants." 

"Right you are." 


	8. It's not time.

Aramis lies back in the wildflowers and breathes — 

And breathes — 

And hums. 

"You like these scents," Porthos says, and he's smiling. 

"*This* is where the wildflowers are gathered for the bedroom you have given me." 

Porthos blushes. "I — yes. They're some of my favourites. I thought... well. I was hoping you'd like them." 

"I *do*. But where does the honeysuckle grow?" 

"Closer to the woods. It likes shadier areas. Would you like to be closer to it?" 

"No, no, this is well! I have not had much *opportunity* to laze in the grass and smell flowers." 

"No, I imagine *not*. You're a city boy." 

"This is so. A few times a year, Mother takes us out of the city so that she can gather plants for her remedies and recipes, but these are *working* trips, you understand." 

"Oh, of course." 

"Still..." Aramis breathes deep again and closes his eyes for a long moment. "I can see why you *need* this, I think." 

Porthos rumbles. "I would *never* complain about the homes I've grown up in, or the life I've lived, but, for me, the best parts of it have always been being outside with my loved ones." 

"Fighting for the King?" 

"Sometimes, yes. But also hunting, fishing, swimming, *playing*. Or cuddling up in a big furry pile with my pack next to a fire — or buried deep under heavy snow." 

"Ohh..." 

"The snow kind of insulates you. Keeps you out of the wind and such. Body heat does the rest." 

"I see! My Porthos does not care for sleeping on beds?" 

Porthos grins at him wryly. "Beds are better when there's someone else *in* them, Aramis." 

And this...

Aramis narrows his eyes thoughtfully — 

Turns on his side — 

*Looks* at Porthos — 

"Um. Aramis?" 

"*Who* have been your lovers?" 

Porthos's eyes are *wide* for this —

"Is *this* a question you cannot answer?" 

"No, no, I *can*, but..." 

"But you believe, for some curious reason, that I do not truly wish the answer?" 

Porthos swallows — 

Sweats — 

And then takes a deep breath and smiles ruefully at Aramis. "Right you are. My lovers have been — mostly — my own pack —" 

"What." 

"The larger pack, I mean, including the de la Fères —" 

"But —" 

"Other than that, I've made love to my fair share of ladies and gentlemen — and the people in between — of custom —" 

"*Porthos*!" 

"And I'm not even remotely going to distract you. All right," Porthos says, and his rueful smile gets even more rueful. "Aramis, it's... I *play* with my packmates. We tumble and wrestle, we chase each other around the grounds, we wrestle more, and sometimes... sometimes things go farther than that. It's not serious —" 

"But what would you have done if you had gotten Jeannette or Odile *pregnant*?" 

"When our sisters go on heat, Lucien and I make ourselves scarce —" 

"What — what?" 

Porthos blushes again. "Werewolf women... well, the way All-Mother explained it to me? A human woman has a chance to get pregnant every *month*. But a werewolf woman might not be fertile more than two or three times a *year*, and, when she is? It's *really* obvious." 

"To... another werewolf?" 

"Uh... to most people. With a mind. Werewolf women on heat get a bit... excitable. Violently so, too. But, yes, we can smell it coming, too." 

Aramis opens his mouth — no. He closes it, and forces himself to think before he speaks. To think about what he *feels*. 

Porthos — this entire pack! — practices *incest*, and — wait. 

"What of your *parents*? The older wolves?" 

"Mm? *Oh*. Oh. Uh. No. They're all involved with each *other*, and that *is* serious —" 

"But they are not 'involved' with their children?" 

"Oh, fuck, no, Aramis." 

Aramis *looks* at Porthos. 

And Porthos blushes. "And... I realize why you might wonder why I'm suddenly getting delicate over here..." 

"I am glad of this, my Porthos," Aramis says, and continues looking. 

Porthos tugs at his collar. 

"*Who* among the de la Fères are your lovers?" 

"Athos — who was Olivier. He's the eldest — a little older than me — and the closest thing I have to a litter-mate. Our parents thought we were —" Porthos shuts his teeth with a click and turns away, growling. 

Aramis wants the end of that *sentence*! But. "You cannot finish that sentence." 

"Not... yet," Porthos says, and he... does not sound convinced. Not like before. 

Aramis shivers. "My Porthos? You do not think you will be able to tell me about your Athos?" 

Porthos *grunts* — 

Turns to face him again — 

Searches him and *studies* him — 

"What is it?" 

"I want. I want to tell you everything about everything and every*one* in my *life*, Aramis. I want to *fill* your mind and *heart* with — I'm sorry. I'm sorry —" 

Aramis reaches up to cover Porthos's mouth. 

"Mm —" 

Porthos's lips are very soft, very plush. 

His *beard* is soft and full of curls — 

His beard is soft like *fur* — 

Aramis strokes it before he can think — 

"Oh. Aramis..." 

Aramis flushes. His fingers are tingling again, hot and *wanting* — 

"Aramis... did you like that?" 

Aramis looks up into Porthos's beautiful eyes, and he knows his own eyes are wide. He — 

He will not lie. 

"Yes," he says.

Porthos shudders and *growls* — 

"Are you in love with your Athos?" 

"What — what?" 

"You heard me!" 

Porthos blinks rapidly and very stupidly. And then he licks his lips. "No, Aramis, I'm not in love with him. I — he's my brother. He's my partner. He's my packmate. I love him with my life *and* I think he's hot as fire — in human- *and* wolf-form." 

"Then —" 

"But I'm not *in* love with him, Aramis," Porthos says, and *pins* him with a look. "He's not who I want to spend every day and night of my life with. He's not who I want to build my life *around*. He's not who I'm —" Porthos *snarls*, but he doesn't look away. "He's not my mate." 

Aramis flushes. "I want to know what you did not say, my Porthos." 

Porthos smiles wryly. "I want to tell you. At length and *repeatedly*." 

Because *I* am your mate, Aramis thinks — *knows*, with all of himself! — and waits for something to happen, something to show that the curse is *broken* —

Nothing happens. 

Nothing at all. 

Aramis frowns. 

"Aramis...?" And Porthos touches Aramis's cheek with his rough fingers, touches so gently. "What's wrong?"

"I... had a thought. I felt certain that the thought would break the curse." 

Porthos shivers. "I. I can't tell you what will break the curse." 

"You cannot tell me if it's something I must do or say or think?" 

Porthos squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head slowly. 

Aramis nods to himself. It is. 

It *is*. 

He will work harder. He strokes Porthos's face, Porthos's handsome face... 

Porthos opens his eyes. "Aramis?" 

"Who are your other lovers among the de la Fères?" 

"Well, he isn't a de la Fère by blood, but he's Athos's and my other brother: d'Artagnan. The Church went after local officials and tried to make it look like it was Kingsmen doing it to terrorize the populace and get more power and wealth." 

"Oh — to turn the countryside against you!" 

"It might have worked if the first official they went after hadn't been d'Artagnan's father. d'Artagnan — who's Lucien's age, by the way — came after us *himself* instead of rousing up the people like he was *supposed* to, and, well, we were enchanted with him. Once we convinced him to stop trying to murder us, he helped us track down the monsters who had tortured his father to death and mutilated the body. *During* that, Athos and I were really unseemly about talking up life as a Kingsman. Especially Athos. He has a real fixation on otherwise good people who try to kill him." 

Aramis blinks — and considers. "d'Artagnan is *Athos's* primary lover." 

Porthos smiles at him and strokes his face again. "d'Artagnan is Athos's *mate*." 

"I — but there is no curse on the de la Fères." 

"None whatsoever —" 

"Who else is your lover?" 

"Thomas, who I've told you a little about —" 

"Your sister's mate!" 

"Yes —" 

"Do you join them in their *bed*?" 

"I... have done that..." 

"Will you do it *again*?" 

Porthos licks his lips and looks into Aramis's eyes. *Pins* him with his gaze again. "That depends." 

On — what. 

But Aramis thinks he knows. 

Oh — he thinks he *knows*. "Perhaps my Porthos has wanted a lover — a *mate* — with whom he could discuss what was proper and what was *not*?"

Porthos takes another shuddering breath. "I've ached for that, Aramis. I've ached to have a mate to love and hold and keep and learn from forever." 

And now you do! But — 

But. 

Something else must happen first. 

There is something else he must *do*. Aramis growls in *frustration* — 

And Porthos strokes his face again — "You don't know how much I hate to see you suffer." 

"I am not suffering!" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis growls more — 

"I like that noise, but —" 

Aramis coughs a surprised laugh — 

And Porthos grins and *cups* Aramis's face with his big, powerful hand. "You're so..." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos looks at him with — with *love* in his eyes! Love and *pain*. 

"You need not say, my Porthos," Aramis says, and shivers. 

Porthos strokes Aramis's cheekbone with his thumb. "Thank you," he says, and his voice is rough. 

Aramis would like to kiss him. 

Aramis would like to — 

To press his mouth to Porthos's own, and do it again, and again — 

To urge Porthos to *cover* him in these wildflowers, and see if there is anything Aramis could *show* him after all these years of 'play' with his packmates. 

Aramis is getting *hard* — 

And Porthos breathes deep and then *whuffs* out a breath. "Aramis —" 

"You smell my musk," Aramis says, and smiles wryly.

"I do — I won't — I won't do *anything* —" 

"Unless I ask you to...?" And Aramis cocks his head to the side. 

Porthos looks *panicked* — 

"*Porthos*!" 

"*Aramis*, it's not — it's not *time* —" 

"How do you *know* this thing?" 

"Because — the curse isn't *broken* —" 

"That is *not* what you were going to say!" 

"I *can't* say what I was going to say, Aramis, I — please. You. I'm going to *dream* of touching you, *tasting* you, *biting* you —" 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"You *want* me to — oh, *Aramis*, just give us a little more *time*."

Aramis pushes closer and reaches up to cup Porthos's face — 

Porthos doesn't *resist* — 

Porthos is taking deep, *hungry* breaths — 

His *teeth* are lengthening!

Aramis beams and leans in — 

But Porthos turns away at the last moment, and Aramis kisses only his *beard*. 

"*Porthos* —" 

"I think. That you're jealous." 

"What." 

"I think a part of you is thinking about all the lovers I've had over the years, all the lovers I've *loved* over the years —" 

"You presume too *much* —" 

"And I think you're wondering where your place is. Where you can *fit*." 

Aramis growls and yanks himself back — 

Scrambles to his feet, heedless of grass stains — 

And he is panting and staring at Porthos, who is standing as well. 

Slowly. 

Aramis glares. 

Porthos —

Porthos is looking at him with caution, with hunger, with need, with worry, with so much *love* — 

Porthos would never say anything to hurt him. 

Porthos would never *lie* to him. 

Aramis looks away. 

He can still see Porthos shudder and slump out of the corner of his eye. 

He — "I do not wish my Porthos to be hurt," he says, when he can control himself. 

"If I could remove every source of pain in this world for you, I would," Porthos says, low and rough. 

Because Porthos loves him. 

Because Porthos is *his*. 

Because Aramis is Porthos's *mate*. 

Because Porthos is *Aramis's* mate...?

That is what the *former* *means*. But. 

He has not thought about it. 

He has not thought about the *implications* of it. 

He is Porthos's *mate*, but... 

But, perhaps, the curse cannot be broken for Porthos until Aramis is ready to accept all of that — every *aspect* of that — for himself. 

All... 

All of that love. 

How does *anyone* accept the love of someone else? Accept it and —

And give it back. 

Aramis swallows, and hugs himself, and misses Paris, and misses his *mother* — 

"Aramis..." 

When he looks back toward Porthos, Porthos is *not* looking at him. He is looking toward the horses, with his face set in the darkly blank look Aramis remembers from the tavern. Aramis shivers. "My Porthos?" 

Porthos frowns. "We should... return. It's almost time for dinner," he says, and turns back to Aramis. "We'll get you back to your mother tomorrow. I promise."

Aramis *blinks* — but before he can think of something to say, Porthos has gone to retrieve their horses, leaving Aramis to the flattened grass and crushed wildflowers. 

The scents are still perfect.


	9. When in doubt, talk to mom.

"Sweet *boy*," his mum says, and when she uses that tone of voice, what she's actually saying is — "Why are you being such a *fool*?" 

Well. That. Porthos puts his head in his hands. 

His mum closes Porthos's bedroom door behind her, stalks in, and puts her fists on her hips, bangles and earrings jingling. "*Porthos*." 

"Mum —" 

"*Why* are you not at dinner?" 

"Why aren't *you*?" 

"Because *I* already *ate* —" 

"Oh, mum, you know you always get hungry in the middle of the night when we travel —" 

"Yes, and it happens whether or *not* I eat at the regular time, which is why I eat *early* so I will not have to *roll* through Jason's portals. Now, stop trying to distract me!" 

"I..." Porthos puts his face back in his hands. "He wants me but he doesn't love me." 

"*Yet*, sweet boy. *Yet*." 

"He *knows*, mum." 

"I. What?" 

"I could *smell* it. I —" Porthos stands and paces. "He was asking such good *questions*, always circling *around* what I couldn't say. He knows he's my mate and he knows I'm in love with him and if he *doesn't* know that the curse won't be broken until he loves me back? Then I'm a bloody *lapdog*." 

Mum draws back, eyes wide. 

Porthos feels an angry, sick-making triumph for it — he's *never* managed to actually *stop* her before, and — 

And then she walks up to him and smacks the side of his head. *Hard*. 

"Bloody *hell*, Mum!" 

"My sweet boy does not *sulk*!" 

"I —" 

"The curse is not broken. He does not love you —" 

"*Exactly* —" 

"But neither is the curse set in *stone*, sweet boy! He is still here! He sat down at the table — allowing your *father* to pull out his chair — and asked for *you*. And hung his *head* when he was told that you had chosen to take your dinner in your rooms." 

"Fuck — did he — did —" 

"He stank of *hurt*!" 

"*No* —" 

"*Yes*, Porthos. I should have *Ife* beat you for this!" 

"Mum —" 

"He is *fourteen*! He was *kidnapped* and *beaten* and then? Gambled away to a strange magical creature who *could not ever answer all of his questions*. *Why* do you think he is going to fall madly in love with you in two *days*?"

Porthos flushes hard — 

Winces *harder* — 

And nods once. "You're right." 

"I *know* this. What are you going to do about it!" 

"Ask him for his forgiveness — well, first, ask him if I'm *allowed* to ask for his forgiveness —" 

"What...?" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "He said I'm supposed to ask him first before I apologize for anything." 

Mum opens her mouth — 

Closes it — 

And raises her eyebrows. 

"He's bloody perfect." 

"Yes, he *is*. And perfect for *you*, sweet boy. And *most* of him knows it. *Furthermore*, your father and Jason have *already* charmed his *mother*." 

"What — *today*?" 

"*Today*," Mum says, and nods. "They visited her before she could flay Hubert alive." 

"Um."

"She was, understandably, eager for more word of her son," Mum says. "In any event, *she* is provisionally pleased with the idea of Aramis being mated to you —" 

"Oh — *oh* —" 

"But that will not *last* with you acting like a *child*!" 

"I won't! I promise!" 

Mum glares at him for a long moment — 

Porthos stands straighter — 

"Hmph. My sweet boy, I think, grew so *accustomed* to his Aramis leading him around by the *nose* that he *forgot* that Aramis was half his *age*." 

"I... a bit, yeah. I won't do it again!" 

"No, you *won't*. Now get down those stairs!" 

"Yes, Mum! And *thank* you," Porthos says, and licks her cheeks. 

Mum rumbles and *grips* Porthos's face with her powerful hands — 

Holds him *still* — 

And licks him back before letting him go.


	10. In which good apologies are an excellent start.

Aramis stares at the mountain of food which has been prepared for him. He and Porthos had eaten a light lunch — mostly meat — and then gone back to riding, and Aramis *had* been hungry, but... 

But. 

The chair beside him is empty. 

Treville had seated *him* at his right hand in the absence of Porthos. 

Across the table, Odile is demolishing enough food to feed at least half the whores at Madame Margaud's, and *Lucien* has joined them, as well. He is discussing his studies with Treville, and eating about as much food — 

As Porthos had eaten at breakfast. 

Porthos does not want to see him. 

Porthos does not want to sit beside him. 

Porthos wants to give him back to his *mother*, and this is good, this is *correct*, this is — 

Mother will be so *happy* — 

Her note — written in Caló! — had been full of love and warmth and *promises* to never let him go *again*. 

It is what he *wants*. 

He should be able to *eat* — 

And Treville's hand is on his own, rough and warm and solid and gentle. 

Aramis jerks his head up. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "We've tried to leave you your privacy —" 

"I — I will eat!" 

"Not that, son. If you're not hungry, don't force it. But you're upset. We can all smell it." 

Lucien and Odile nod — 

Odile is still *eating*, but she nods, braid bouncing — 

Aramis swallows. "I apologize —" 

"Shh. You've nothing to apologize for. You've had a difficult time of it; we all know it." 

"I — I hurt your Porthos," Aramis says, and hangs his head. 

"Oh, son. All you did was be yourself. The fact that he wants more than he can have isn't *your* fault, and my Amina-love is beating that into him as we speak." 

"I. What?" 

Treville winks. "None of us are going to let you hurt, son. That's just not the way we do things around here." 

"But — but it's not *Porthos's* fault —" 

"Son. Correct me if I'm wrong — *please* — but is one of the things hurting you right now the thought that Porthos doesn't want to spend time with you anymore?" 

"I..." 

"The thought that, perhaps, he's ready to give *up* on you?" 

Aramis looks down. 

Treville cups Aramis's chin and lifts his face. "I'm showing him all this, by the way. He's not far from this room, and he's beating *himself* to a pulp —" 

"*Oh* — no —" 

"Because *now* he knows exactly how badly he's fucked up." 

"He — he — he must not be *hurt* —" 

"You care for him." 

"I *do* —" 

"Shh. It's all right. We all know exactly how he feels about *you*. And you did, too... before he made you doubt." 

Aramis inhales sharply. "I..." 

"Make him pay for that, mm?" And Treville moves his hand from Aramis's face — 

And Porthos walks into the room, looking at nothing and no one other than Aramis and dropping to one knee beside his chair. "I'd like to begin the process of apologizing to you." 

Aramis swallows — 

Looks at the others — 

Looks to Porthos again — his eyes are wide and full and *hurt*. But. 

Not for himself. 

Aramis reaches out to touch his face — 

His beautiful *face* — 

But.

He must be his mother's son. 

He drops his hand to his lap — 

Porthos nods. 

"Porthos... what *precisely* would you like to apologize for?" 

"For making you *ever* think, even for a moment, that I wanted to be quit of you. For deserting you. For *hurting* you. I never want to hurt you. I want to *destroy* *everyone* that hurts you —" 

"You want to destroy yourself?" 

"Right now? More than a little." 

Aramis rears back — 

"I'd also like to apologize for filling your mind with disturbing *thoughts* —" 

"You will not apologize for answering my *questions*!" 

Porthos winces and nods. "I rescind that apology." 

Aramis breathes. "*Why* did you wish me to think that you wanted me away from you?"

"Because it was easier than letting you see my... hurt. I apologize, Aramis, I can't answer this question completely," Porthos says, but doesn't look away from him. 

Aramis nods slowly and considers. Porthos loves him. They are *mates*. He knows that Aramis does not yet love him the way that is needed to break the curse — 

The way that *he* needs for *himself*. 

He was hurt. 

He *is* hurt, and is tamping it down for *Aramis's* sake, because he feels he has done wrong.

Aramis nods once more. "Do you often lash out when you are hurt?" 

"*No*. I — please. *Please*, ask anyone who knows me. Ask *everyone* who knows me."

Lucien clears his throat.

Aramis turns to him — 

And Lucien smiles ruefully over his glass of wine. "He taught all of us to... hold ourselves to a higher standard of behaviour than that, Aramis." 

"Yes?" 

"It was an easy lesson to follow — relatively — since it was clear enough that he held himself to the same standard." 

Odile, who is still eating, nods *vehemently*. 

Aramis turns to Treville. "Did you and your mate teach him this?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "We didn't *have* to, son. He treated everyone kindly and warmly from the time he was a *young* cub." 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

Treville nods to Porthos. "He'll say that we *did* teach him right from wrong, and he's right that we told him teaching *stories*, but we were often telling those stories in response to some ridiculously fair-minded thing we'd seen him do with absolutely no provocation whatsoever, in the hopes that he'd *keep that up*. And he did. There's a reason my Amina-love started calling him 'sweet boy' and *kept* calling him that."

"So. You are — all — saying that it is only in extreme cases that he lashes out when hurt." 

"This is the first time I've seen him do it, son," Treville says. "Except, of course, when he's been injured in the full-wolf-form and one of us has had to try to *treat* his injuries before he could shift. None of us do well at times like those." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully and turns back to Porthos. "You will hold yourself to a higher standard for *me*." 

Porthos stares into Aramis's eyes —

Growls — 

"I think. I think you know how I'd like to answer that question." 

Aramis inhales — "Yes. I do. You will keep yourself from *hurting* me." 

"Yes. I will *never* hurt you on purpose, and I'll do my damnedest to avoid doing it by accident." 

Aramis shivers — 

His hands want to be *on* Porthos! But...

"You will not... leave me alone," Aramis says, and forces himself not to look *down*. 

Porthos pants — 

Pants *hard* — 

*Snarls* — "You know. You *know*." 

Aramis *grins* — and reaches for Porthos — 

Porthos takes Aramis's hand and licks the *palm*!

"*Oh* —" 

Porthos *looks* at him over the tops of Aramis's fingers — 

Porthos breathes *hot* against Aramis's wet palm — 

Aramis's *cock* jerks — 

Porthos flares his nostrils —

"Porthos..."

"You... should eat." 

"So should you!" 

Porthos lowers Aramis's hand away from his mouth and nods toward Aramis's towering plate. "Why don't I help you with that?" 

"Oh — yes! Do this thing!" 

And Porthos pulls out the chair beside him and grabs the fork and knife from the place setting that had never been cleared away —

And they eat. 

Together. 

For some reason, this takes quite some time.


	11. In which Treville is an arse, and Porthos apologizes. Again.

Leaving for Paris involves many, many Trevilles and family retainers gathering by the stables. Not *all* the horses will be taken, but both of the carriages and all three exceedingly well-made covered *carts* will be taken, and this means that very *few* horses will be left behind. 

Aramis checks — and Jason reassures him that *all* of the horses will be visited and cheered and cossetted *daily*. 

Perhaps this is how Gabrielle gained that extra weight. 

Everyone seems to be busy doing *something*, but Aramis has already readied Gabrielle for travel, and his saddlebags were packed *for* him before he could so much as lift a finger this morning. 

It is *very* frustrating and deeply — 

Oh, *Amina* is doing nothing but *eating*. 

Perhaps if he stands by her he will feel less *useless* — 

And there is a strong, warm hand on his shoulder. 

"Porthos —" 

"Not quite," Treville says, and smiles down at him. He is dressed very smartly in his Kingsman uniform, which, as ever, looks far too *showy* to be a true soldier's uniform, but...

Hm. Aramis studies it closely. It fits more loosely than other soldiers' uniforms do, and the leather is not very thick, at all. It's only barely appropriate for riding! But... 

"Son? Did you have a question? I only stopped you from going to my Amina-love because she needs time to fret and eat when we're traveling en masse like this. Even though Jason always calls one of the *other* Jason Bloods of his acquaintance to help out with the logistics —" 

"What — *what*?" 

"There tend to be a lot of Jasons across the spheres, son. A lot of incredibly powerful, immortal mages who, happily, are generally aligned with our sort of morality," Treville says. "Today's additional Jason will be making certain no one steps off the *broad* path he and *our* Jason have made while our Jason holds the portal open on the other side, and makes certain no one *sees* us arriving." 

"I — *where* will we be arriving?" 

"On my lands outside of Paris. That's about as close as a large group of people can arrive with guaranteed privacy, and a few of our people will be staying on there to prepare the manor house in case we decide to visit while we're in the area." 

Aramis nods. This makes sense. 

"But I think you had another question...?" And Treville's eyes are bright and twinkling. 

"I..." Aramis *looks* at Treville's uniform. 

Porthos is wearing *his* uniform today, as well. 

They — 

Treville laughs. "You don't approve of how we dress." 

"It — you are *foppish*. Sir." 

Treville *yips* a laugh — and *shifts*!

Suddenly he is two feet taller and *massive* and *hulking*, and the shirt and leathers that had fit him so loosely and — and *ridiculously* when he was in human-form... "Oh." 

Treville rumbles and grins. 

*Wolfishly*. His thin, black lips pull back from his many sharp teeth and his tongue lolls and his leathers *creak* — 

"Bloody *hell*, Daddy —" 

"Hrr," Treville says, and shifts back, silver and white fur almost seeming to slip back *inside* him as he *shrinks* again. "Aramis was wondering about our uniforms, son." 

Porthos glares at Treville for a long moment — 

Treville is still *grinning* — 

And Porthos turns to *him*, eyes wide and expression solicitous. "Are you all right, Aramis? Do you need —" 

"My Porthos," Aramis says, and stops. 

And considers. Porthos is still treating him gently, and there is nothing *inherently* wrong with this, but... 

But. He must learn not to treat Aramis gently in *this* way. Aramis turns back to Treville. "Your wolf is very handsome, sir." 

Porthos *coughs* — 

"Why, thank you, son —" 

"Your teeth curve so viciously, and your fur looked very sleek and soft to touch —" 

Porthos *whines* — 

And Treville grins. "You're welcome to pet me anytime you'd like —" 

Porthos *growls* and all but *carries* his father away from Aramis — 

Treville is laughing *hard* —

And Aramis hums and waits patiently. 

It does not take long for Porthos to return, wild-eyed and panting. "I'd like to apologize for — a couple of things." 

"Yes, my Porthos?" 

"For leaving you alone this morning —" 

"Did you or did you *not* have duties to perform?" 

Porthos gives him a *pleading* look — 

Aramis crosses his arms over his chest. 

Porthos sighs. "I rescind my apology. I would *also* like to apologize for not... uh... for not *realizing* that you'd like to see my wolf," he says, after obviously having put thought into how to phrase it. 

Aramis smiles. 

Porthos smiles back — 

"You will show me?" 

"Whenever you'd like —" 

"Right now!" 

"Right you are," Porthos says, and shifts —

And he is... big. 

Of *course* he is big; in human-form, he is *massive*. But in wolf-form...

Aramis walks around and around him... 

His fur is a brown so dark that it is nearly *black* — 

It has many soft-looking *waves* — 

Aramis reaches out to touch the fur on the back of his claw-tipped hand — and pauses. 

And looks up — 

And *up* — 

Porthos rumbles. "Please. *Touch*," he says, and he seems to almost be *chewing* the words — 

"You have difficulty with speech in this form?" 

"Yesss. Easier. With practice. We mostly don't. Please *touch*." 

Aramis purrs and *pets* Porthos's hand — 

Strong hand — 

Soft and warm — 

He pets the other hand — 

Brings it to his *face* — 

"Careful..." 

"Mm...?"

And Porthos stares into him with his *hot* green eyes as he curls his obviously-sharp claws in... and then caresses Aramis's face with the backs of his hands. 

Aramis turns into it, rubs his face *against* Porthos's hands — 

"You. Like this." 

"*Yes*, my Porthos. You feel very good. You *smell* very good. Like the wind through flowers! Is this your fur?"

Porthos rumbles a growl. "My. Musk. When I'm happy." 

Aramis beams — 

And Porthos *lifts* him into the air — 

"*Oh*!" 

And then Porthos holds him with *one* arm while using the other hand to bring Aramis's hands to his bared chest. 

"Oh — yes?" 

"Fur. Is different. Thicker." 

"Yes, I see!" And Aramis pets and pets it and runs his *fingers* through it — 

Tugs at it — 

Leans in to sniff — 

Porthos rumbles low and so *happy* — 

And Aramis thinks of being curled up with Porthos, sometime. Of resting atop him, or curled in against his chest as they lie on their sides... 

Burying his face in his soft, thick chest-fur as, perhaps, Porthos petted him and told him stories about his strange and incredible life — 

Resting warm and safe until he — slept. And that...

Aramis shudders and *stops* petting — 

Draws *back* — 

And Porthos whuffs out a breath and shifts back to human-form, setting Aramis down on his feet again. "Aramis...? What's wrong." 

"I — I was thinking of sleeping with you. Just sleeping..." 

Porthos, he can tell, is trying not to frown. "We... we never need to —" 

"No, my Porthos, you do not *understand*. I..." Aramis frowns up at Porthos. "I have never *wished* to share my sleep with anyone but my *mother*." 

Porthos blinks — and nods. "You're confused, and you're worried... you need to speak with her." 

"Oh — yes. Yes, I do. I must not make her think that I am disloyal!" 

Porthos takes a sharp breath. "I don't think anyone who knows you could ever think that about you." 

Aramis blushes. "My Porthos..." 

"Yes, Aramis?" 

Aramis strokes Porthos's warm, human-looking hands. "My Porthos must understand how wonderful it was to be in his arms..."

Porthos growls low. "You liked my fur." 

Aramis blushes more deeply. "Yes, my Porthos." 

"You didn't find it..." 

"Mm? What is it, my Porthos?" And Aramis strokes Porthos's long, thick thumbs with his own.

Porthos shivers. "Sometimes... we make love in that form."

Aramis thinks he must look like a *beet*, but — "Sometimes...?" 

Porthos licks his lips. "When we're feeling especially passionate about someone, it can be almost impossible not to shift." 

"Oh..." And the thought of that — 

Is that what he had been inviting yesterday in the grass? 

Porthos's *teeth* had started to shift *immediately*!

He — 

Aramis is Porthos's mate. 

Porthos *will* be overcome with passion, even if he manages not to *hurt* Aramis, which... 

"My Porthos... knows how to control himself in that form?" 

Porthos blinks — "I — yes. Our parents trained us to have *absolute* control over our strength, Aramis —" 

"But when you are making *love* —" 

"In *every* situation, Aramis. We weren't *allowed* to touch *anyone* — even other wolves — until we could *stop* ourselves from doing *anything* even under *extreme* stresses." 

Aramis stares. 

"I will *never* hurt you *that* way," Porthos says. 

"I — no, I *believe* you, my Porthos. I am only trying to — and trying *not* to — imagine *how* your parents trained you for this." 

"Oh," Porthos says, and licks his lips. "Does that mean you *don't* want me to tell you, Aramis...?" 

"I always wish to know!" 

"Right you are —" 

"But not right now," Aramis says, flushing and licking his own lips. 

Porthos nods slowly. 

"I am not conceding defeat!" 

Porthos grins. "I already know you never *would*." 

Oh — "*Good*. You have made love to boys in that form?" 

"I have —" 

"What boys have struck you so *passionately*?" 

"Well — my pack —" 

"Who *else*?" 

Porthos blinks, but recovers quickly. "No one, Aramis. But there have been other people who've been curious and interested and good-natured about it that I've shifted for." 

Aramis frowns. "That is *enough* for you?" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "It can be a relief to be around humans who are *only* curious and open-minded about us, Aramis." 

Aramis flushes and *squeezes* Porthos's big hands — "My Porthos deserves better than this!"

Porthos's breath hitches. "Perhaps I'll have it someday," he says, and never looks away from Aramis's eyes.

Aramis... 

Aramis would like to be able to give Porthos everything.

*All* things. And saying that would only be hurtful. It is not worth enough for this man. 

Instead, he pushes close. 

"Oh — Aramis?" 

"I do not let people... touch me. Hug me. Not in real, true ways." 

"Not — except for your mother?" 

"Just so," Aramis says, and his heart is pounding, pounding so *hard* — 

"Oh, Aramis.... may I?" 

"Please," Aramis says, and he is flushed, so *flushed* — 

And Porthos *envelops* him in a hug — 

Holds him tight and close — 

Rocks Aramis and sniffs his *hair* —

"Oh, my Porthos!"

"I could do this for hours at a time and never get tired of it. *Days*." 

Aramis shivers and smiles and presses closer still. 

They will do this until it is time to *leave*.


	12. Comfort the small, vibrating boy.

The passage through Jason's portals was... fascinating. 

He had not been allowed to *look* at anything but the print of Amina's incredibly un-French riding dress ahead of him — he had been on his Gabrielle, she had been on her Kaseko — but it had been clear that they were *surrounded* by living beings. 

Those beings had plucked and *teased* at his awareness, and Aramis's power — so active and *available* since that visit with the All-Mother — had almost leapt to *examine* — 

("I wouldn't do that if I were you,") Jason had said beside him. *A* Jason had said, because the voice was a little more rough, a little less *rich*, a little more *twistedly* amused. 

Aramis had not *looked*, but — ("Why is this?" 

"As my other undoubtedly told you, a mage who looks too closely at the beings in this between-space risks having their soul rather viciously *attacked* by those beings. Using your *power* to do the looking is *just* as much of a problem.") 

Aramis had winced. ("I apologize —" 

"Quite all right. You need more training than you've had." 

"I —" 

"Consider looking me up when the slow pace of your training finally grows *enervating*,") the other Jason had said, and then smacked Gabrielle's rump — 

She'd leapt through the other portal — 

And the *correct* Jason had taken his reins and clucked his tongue. ("Apologies, Aramis. We tend to be an *acquisitive* breed.") 

Aramis has been thinking about this for much of the ride to Paris — they had not stopped long at the smaller, lonelier-looking estates — and...

He will *need* to be trained. 

He will need to be trained *magically*. 

Mother has taught him what she could, with his magic so unpredictably available, and she will be able to teach him *more* now that it has gained some stability, but... 

She has always made it *clear* that there were *limits* to what she could teach him, and that he would have to *find* another teacher someday. Neither of them would countenance him traveling to Spain to rejoin Mother's people for his education, but she *has* wanted him to learn from a Rom teacher. 

How would she *feel* about Jason's — multiple Jasons'! — offer to teach him? 

About the *Treville* family's offers? 

She has been through so *much*. He cannot make her life more difficult and — 

"Aramis...?" 

Oh. "I..." He looks to Porthos on his Léon, riding tall and strong and beautiful beside him. "You could smell my distress." 

"Well — yes. But I was asking —" 

"Yes, you were, and that is *good*," Aramis says, and smiles at him helplessly — 

Porthos smiles back — 

And Aramis turns back to the road. It's much less stony than it had been by Treville's estates, but you must be careful, you must — 

"You don't *have* to tell me..." 

He must not stall. Aramis licks his lips. "I... am worried." 

"About?" 

"About... I want my mother to *like* you. To like all of you!"

Porthos grins. "I'm glad of that." 

Aramis smiles helplessly again — no, no — "*She* has controlled my education, my Porthos. She — she makes *all* the decisions about my *life*." 

Porthos nods. "That's proper." 

"But..." 

"You're worried that she'll want to... keep you away from us?" 

Aramis hangs his head. "I feel like a disloyal, ungrateful, *unworthy* child for my worries." 

"You never *could* be —" 

"You do not *understand*, my Porthos! My mother, she has had *only* me, and I have had only *her*. *You* have had a *big* family — a great pack made up of *multiple* families! You love every member of the pack well, but if one is missing for some weeks, you do not pine *away*. Do you see?" 

Porthos frowns and nods. 

"So —" 

"Wait one moment, though, Aramis." 

"What?" 

"You know Daddy and Jason went to *see* your mother yesterday, right?" 

"I — what? I thought... you sent a *messenger*. Through the *portals*!" 

Porthos winces. "Your mum was a little uh — upset with the messenger. She didn't like the answers Hubert had to her questions —" 

"Oh, no —" 

"*So* Daddy and Uncle Jason stepped in — uh. How violent is your mother?" 

"She hurt Hubert?"

"Daddy says it was pretty clear she was thinking about it." 

"She is... I would say moderately violent? She does not *look* for violence, but she does not shrink from it. But Porthos —" 

"Right, that's fine. Any mother worth her salt would be like that about her child —" 

"*Porthos* —" 

"And on to the important things: Your mother is coming over to our house." 

"She *is*?" 

"She is. Jason's already sent Lisle for her —" 

"*Oh*!" 

"He's telling me this now, by the way —" 

"Tell me more!" 

"Right you are. Judging by where *we* are and what I know about what the streets are like in Paris at this time of day? She should be arriving not long after we do." 

*They* are riding into Paris as they speak — 

Aramis beams — 

Fights the urge to coax Gabrielle to ride faster — 

There are *many* people on these streets; he will not be rude — 

Though... 

When people see the Kingsman uniforms, they make way. 

Aramis looks at the people's eyes and finds curiosity, resentment, envy, lust, indifference, smug assurance — usually on the faces of those who Aramis *knows* are *most* ignorant — 

But... curiosity and indifference, in general, reign supreme. 

Treville and the others have been managing well. 

"What are you thinking?" And Porthos's voice is quiet as he scans the streets. 

"I was thinking that your father and the other elders of your pack have done well at keeping the people *pacified*." 

Treville yips a laugh from ahead of them. "Thank you kindly, son." 

Porthos smiles wryly. "Some of us prefer not to rest on our *laurels*." 

"No, do not! All know that a crowd can become a mob in an instant, and a mob can become a *riot* in an *eyeblink*." 

"That's *right*," Porthos says. "I wish I were a better politician, but *Lucien* is a wonderful one. He's devoted himself to it — and so have Thomas and Jeannette. We won't be in terrible shape," he says grudgingly. 

Treville laughs softly as he scans the streets himself. 

"This is what we have *earned*, sweet brother," Amina says to Treville. 

"For our sins, Amina-love?" 

"For our *lifetime* of wild and carefree behaviour! We have children who will teach *us* how to behave." 

"Mother help us all," Treville mutters —

"*Oi*." 

Treville and Amina snicker like children — 

And Porthos smiles with utter helplessness — and looks to *him* to share it. 

Aramis smiles back — 

Porthos licks his lips. "You don't have to worry about us treating your mother respectfully —" 

"I know this thing!" 

"And you also don't have to worry about us trying to go against her wishes —" 

"I..." Aramis flushes. 

Porthos flares his nostrils — and nods. "Perhaps... we'll all just work to be *extra* charming —" 

"You will be honest! You will *all* be honest, as honest as you can be —" 

"Your mother knows the curse just as well as we do, son," Treville says, serious again. 

"What." 

"It was abundantly clear to Jason and me that polite little fictions would, at *best*, get us tossed out on our arses. We were honest with her about *exactly* what we wanted with you and *why*." 

Aramis takes a *breath* — "And. She has still agreed to come to *your* home." 

"That she has," Treville says, with a smile in his voice. 

"Did you — what else did you *speak* about?" 

"Hmm. Sadly, not much that we can *tell* you —" 

"*Fuck* — I mean — I mean — I accept this!" And Aramis pats and cossets Gabrielle — 

Purrs and coos to her — 

Tries to *imagine* — 

"We *did* discuss — briefly — the idea of you becoming a Kingsman —" 

"You — you — what did she *say*?" 

"She didn't *give* a definitive answer, I'm afraid —" 

"That means she is waiting to see if *I* truly want it! Oh, sir!" Aramis *beams*!

He turns to Porthos — 

Porthos grins at him *broadly* — 

And Treville and Amina rumble. And then Amina clears her throat. "Your mama knew before *you* did how our Porthos *related* to his *pack*, Aramis." 

Porthos blushes — "Uh." 

"Oh — yes?" And Aramis turns to Amina again. 

"Oh, yes! She *asked* about it, precious boy." 

"Always Mother is *many* steps ahead of me!" 

"That is what mothers do, precious boy —" 

"Did she... what did she say about *this*?"

"*That* ties into things we cannot tell you —" 

"*Damn* —" 

"But I believe your *mama* will have things to tell you." 

Aramis is... eager. 

So *eager* — and much, much more hopeful than he had been. 

He looks to Porthos again, smiling and nodding — 

Porthos rumbles at him — 

And then Aramis turns back to Amina and Treville. "Thank you. *All* of you. I feel... much better." 

"*Good*," Amina says, and smiles back at him. "This means you will *convince* your mama to stay with us —" 

"I!"

"She's a wonderful conversationalist, son," Treville says, and adjusts his hat. 

And that... sounds like... 

Aramis looks to Porthos — 

Porthos is flaring his nostrils again — and yipping. "*Daddy*. *Mum*. You are *not* to make a move on Aramis's *mother*." 

Aramis's jaw drops — 

Amina *cackles* — 

Treville winks at him. "We want to make sure she feels like part of the family, son —" 

"She will stab you," Aramis says. 

Treville sighs happily. "And we'll deserve it, son, but do you think all the blood will make her feel comfortable?"

"She's *moderately* violent, Daddy. Put it *away*." 

"Right you are, son. We'll behave ourselves —" 

"For now," Amina says. 

"Yes, for now. And Kitos and Reynard will be over soon — they're going to *adore* her —" 

"Will she want to stab them?" 

"*I* still want to stab them sometimes, precious boy," Amina says. "But not in *bad* ways." 

Porthos gives him a long-suffering look — 

And Aramis cannot help but laugh. 

Porthos grins at him. 

They ride.


	13. These things can sneak up on you.

Aramis manages to wash the road dust away and change into still more of Lucien's clothes — 

He would like to kick Julio's corpse just for throwing out the good clothes his mother had purchased for him — 

He cannot eat. 

He cannot sit. 

He cannot stay in any room other than the foyer, and — 

And, he is pacing. 

Much. 

Very — 

And then Porthos lifts him up and places him in front of the window with the best view of the family stables, right on the cushioned seat, and sits beside him. 

And holds him. 

And holds him *still*. 

And sniffs him — "No, Aramis...?" 

"I..." 

"Do you need to move?" 

"Perhaps my Porthos will hold me tighter?" 

Porthos squeezes most of the *breath* out of him — 

And. 

Hm. 

"This —" Aramis takes a sip of air — "This is very soothing, my Porthos..."

"It is for lots of people. I like it, too." 

"Yes?" 

"Sometimes just about everyone needs to be compressed a bit by someone who... feels strongly about them." 

Loves them. *Loves* them. Aramis cups Porthos's strong forearms and turns enough that he can kiss his bicep. 

"Oh. Aramis?" 

"You are very important to me, my Porthos. I know that isn't enough, but —" 

"Shh. It's all right. I know... well. We're getting to know each other. And, in the meantime, you're letting me take care of you." 

"You like this thing." 

"I love it." 

"You like taking care of many people?" 

"I suppose you could say that. I've always wanted someone special, though. Someone just for me." 

Aramis shivers and tries to press *closer* — 

Porthos holds him *tighter* — and rocks him. 

"My Porthos..." 

"Mm?" 

"Your family wishes my mother to stay with you?" 

"Yes. And I want to add a lot more to that statement." 

"I *believe* I know this thing..." 

"How can I help?" 

"Other families... they do not *all* stay together. The bride goes to live with the groom's family, or... or something like. Your own Jeannette —" 

"Oh, let me stop you there." 

"Yes? Yes?" 

Porthos licks his temple — 

"Oh —" 

"There are two main reasons why Jeannette is staying in Paris for her pregnancy, when she *could* join us anywhere, at any time." 

"Yes!" 

"One, she *is* pregnant, and she *can't shift*. Or rather, she *can*, but it would hurt the babe." 

"Oh — oh, no —" 

"Exactly. The more time she spends in the countryside, the more tempted she *will* be to shift. That's just how it works for werewolf women. Mum didn't spend *any* time in the countryside when she was pregnant, if she could help it."

"I see! What is the other reason?" 

"Thomas is a courtier — and so, really, is *she*. Thomas is working to get more stability, security, and *insurance* for us among the nobility which we *haven't* culled and, frankly, working to discern which members of the nobility still *need* to be culled and just haven't stuck their necks out, yet. 

"We all know that only the cowards and the *really* dangerous ones are left, and so the work he's doing is vital and deadly. He needs backup, and Henri can't *quite* raise Lucien, yet." 

"Jeannette has more power than Lucien?" 

"Funny, isn't it? But she's *popular*. *Charming*. *Disarming*. All sorts of people forget she's a werewolf, until they think about the fact that she's a pregnant woman wandering around in public spaces, and then they just think, with her, that it's a *quirk* of *birth* — like the colour of her skin." 

"I." 

"Exactly. The fact that Lucien is male — and *my* younger brother — is working against him, here — while the fact that Odile is the *younger* sister and thus no one really knows what she can and *will* do has been working *for* Jeannette. She's had quite a bit of time to establish herself." 

Aramis nods slowly. "I..." 

"Mm?" 

"I want... I want to be of assistance." 

Porthos rumbles. "I want to let you be." 

"Yes? Truly?" 

"You're brilliant, Aramis. The way your mind works just..." And Porthos takes a deep breath and *nuzzles* into his hair. "I always want to know what you're thinking. I always want to know *how* you're thinking. I always want to be able to see what you *do* with how you think. You were born to change the world." 

Aramis's heart slams in his chest, but it is not uncomfortable, it is not too much pressure, it is — 

"Aramis? Did that answer surprise you?" 

"Oh — I —" Aramis kisses Porthos's bicep again — 

Again and again — 

Porthos growls and licks a *long* stripe from Aramis's jaw to his *temple* — 

"Oh, my Porthos! Please don't make me hard!" 

And, this close, he can feel *Porthos's* big cock *jerk*. 

Aramis gasps — "I apologize!" 

"Shh. You don't have anything to apologize for," Porthos says, and *kisses* his temple. "I shouldn't have done that." 

"Are you *apologizing*." 

Porthos licks his lips. "Only if you want me to." 

"I do not!" 

Porthos's eyes *flare* green — "Then I don't take *anything* back." 

Aramis beams — 

Reaches up to caress Porthos's face —

So — "My Porthos is very beautiful..." 

Porthos rumbles and rocks him again — 

"Oh, Porthos —" 

"Maybe you'd like to see me pretty often, then. If I'm so beautiful." 

"I... I would like to see you every *day*, my Porthos." 

Porthos gasps — 

"I would like to *be* with you every day," Aramis says, and, "Please," he says, and leans in to kiss — 

Just a kiss, he will not push himself — 

He will not push himself *on* Porthos — 

But Porthos growls and kisses him *deeply* — 

Takes his *mouth* — 

Growls and moans and *sobs* into his mouth and holds him, rocks him, pushes one big hand through Aramis's hair and stands — 

Lifts Aramis *with* him — 

And Aramis can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but give the kiss *back* — 

Wrap his legs around Porthos's waist and his arms around his strong neck and suck his tongue, lick it — 

He does not *know* which of them is sobbing, but it feels so good, so right, so — 

There has never been a kiss like this!

There has never been a *touch* so — 

So — 

Everything feels so good, so right, so *correct*, as if there is nothing he should be doing *other* than kissing Porthos, *his* Porthos, *always* his Porthos, and how did he not know how deep it went? 

How did he not *understand*?

*He* is growling, and he is clawing at Porthos's hair, and Porthos is nodding, licking him, licking him all over his *face* — 

"Oh, no, Porthos, no, more kisses, more —" 

"You broke the *curse*," Porthos says, and his voice is low, guttural, open, *raw* — 

Aramis stares — 

Blinks like an *idiot* — 

"I... love you?" 

Porthos laughs *hard*. "You *do*, precious. I can smell it. I can *taste* it. I can feel it boiling in my *blood* —" 

"Precious — this is what your mother calls me!" 

"I've wanted to call you precious from the moment I *saw* you. I've wanted —" Porthos growls and touches Aramis's face. "Those fine bones. That soft mouth. Those *contemptuous* eyes for everyone in the room *except* for the maids and the servants." Porthos grins. "I didn't earn a *thing* from you until I proved I knew my way around a *horse*." 

"I..." 

"Don't try to deny it, love —" 

"I am your love as well?" 

Porthos squeezes him again, smiling broadly and looking at Aramis as if Aramis had given him the best gift possible. "You're everything to me."

Aramis's heart pounds and pounds and *pounds* — "My Porthos..." 

"Mm?" 

"Will you love me forever?" 

"Yes," Porthos says, with absolute certainty.

Aramis blushes. "Even when I am old? Grey and stooped and toothless?" 

"Yes. Though... we can do something about that..." And Porthos's teeth lengthen. 

"Oh, *Porthos* — you want me to be your *true* mate!" 

"You *are* my true mate. I just want you to be *safe* and *strong* and *healthy* for a nice, long time — and for you to be able to feel me just as well as I can feel you." 

Aramis pushes *close* — stops. 

*Stops*. 

Porthos flares his nostrils. "Precious? What's wrong?"

"I must speak to my *mother*, my Porthos." 

Porthos blinks — but sets Aramis down *immediately*. "Right you are. We won't get ahead of ourselves." 

"Oh, Porthos..." 

"I won't make such a good impression on your mother with your blood in my mouth, now will I?" 

Aramis grunts and *stares*. 

"Mm?" 

"I... believe I can see your *control*, my Porthos..." 

Porthos *winks* at him and laughs. "Control is a lot bloody easier when you have a heart full of *hope*, precious," he says, and peers out the window. "*And* it looks like we stopped in the nick of time —" 

"Oh! She's here!" And Aramis neatens himself as best as he can — 

Looks for a *mirror* — 

"The mirror's right over there, love —" 

"Fix your *beard*!" 

"I — will now fix my beard —" 

"She will know *anyway*, but — oh, let *me*!" And Aramis reaches up and neatens his Porthos, his beautiful Porthos — 

Porthos reaches for his hair — 

"Do not touch!" 

Porthos *drops* his hands — 

And the tall, scarred former soldier-turned-servant who Aramis now knows is named Alaire arrives while Aramis is primping Porthos — 

Porthos nods to him — 

"Do not *move*!" 

"Right you are!" 

Alaire smiles and waits until Aramis is done. 

He is clearly a very kind man. Aramis will give him *many* gifts. 

Aramis takes a *deep* breath — 

Porthos does the same — 

And then Alaire opens the door.


	14. But it's time to meet Mom.

Mother arrives with Jason — and Aramis should have known that the Trevilles would not *just* send one of their horses!

She is warm and gracious to both Jason and Alaire, but just a *little* more *brief* than she would normally be — 

Aramis is all but poised on the balls of his *feet* — 

Alaire leaves —

Mother allows Jason to take her bare hand in his and kiss it before *he* leaves, and that is *good*, so *good* — 

Though Aramis would like to know why it makes Porthos inhale so sharply — 

Does he believe Jason is flirting with Mother?

*Is* he flirting?

But Aramis can think of nothing when Mother rests her eyes on him. 

He runs to her, wrapping his arms around her for the first time since *Julio* had come. 

She squeezes away *all* of his air — 

She says *nothing* for long moments — 

He holds her just as *tightly* — 

She makes a soft noise which sounds *helpless* —

Aramis tries to squeeze *harder* — 

But Mother pushes him back — 

Grips him by the *hair* — 

Aramis looks *up* — "Mother —" 

"*Tricky* boy..." 

Aramis shivers and shivers — 

Mother's eyes are *damp* — 

Her grip on Aramis's hair is so *tight* — 

Her other hand is on his shoulder, and she is looking at him, staring at him, *studying* him — 

Aramis knows what she is looking for. "Mother, I am well!" 

She narrows her eyes — and nods slowly. "My tricky boy is happy." 

"You are here!" 

Mother inhales deeply and slowly. "And not at Madame Margaud's, tricky boy...?" 

Aramis blushes *hard* — 

And Mother smiles sharply and gives his hair a tug. "Introduce me." 

"I — I — yes, Mother!"

And *then* Mother releases him — 

Aramis turns to find Porthos standing at *attention*. No, no, this is incorrect. "My Porthos, you must show Mother who you *truly* are!" 

Porthos blinks — and immediately relaxes himself. He is still standing straight and tall and perfect, but he no longer looks like a deceptively foppish *statue*. 

Aramis smiles at him — 

Porthos smiles at *him* — 

And Aramis leads Mother closer. "Mother, this is my Porthos. I have told you of him, but he has proven himself to be even more —" 

"You love him." 

Aramis blushes again. "I... the curse is broken, Mother. The curse which could only be broken *by* me loving him. I... was not expecting it." 

"No, tricky boy? Even with Porthos being so obviously superior...?" 

Aramis looks to Mother and waits. 

And Mother inhales again and nods. "I see. You were expecting to need my *opinion*." 

"*Yes*, Mother. I —" 

"Shh," she says, and strokes his face. Her smile is rueful and soft. "My tricky boy was not expecting to grow into a tricky man..." 

Aramis blinks and blinks — "Mother —" 

"Shh, shh, you will *always* be my tricky boy," she says, gripping his hair and looking up at Porthos. 

"Mademoiselle," Porthos says. "May I take us somewhere we can sit comfortably? Perhaps have some refreshments?" 

"Not yet," she says, and cocks her head to the side. "Show me your wolf, please. Your father neglected to do this thing when we met." 

"I can't speak for him *entirely*, but I feel certain that this was accidental on his part, Mademoiselle —" 

"Will you make me wait...?" 

Porthos grins. "Not at all. Though I will have difficulty speaking in that form, just to warn you," he says, and shifts *as* Mother is nodding —

Once again his uniform is straining — 

Once again he is massive, magnificent, *perfect* — 

Somehow just as perfect as he is in *human*-form — 

And he is rumbling. 

Aramis *beams* — 

Porthos rumbles *louder* — 

And Mother turns Aramis's face to *her*. 

"Yes, Mother?" 

She smiles wryly again. "My tricky boy appreciates his Porthos's wolf..." 

"Oh — *yes*, Mother! His fur is so soft and thick! And his scents are sweet, musky, powerful —" 

"Has he shown you his *cock* yet, tricky boy?" 

"I." 

Porthos sounds as though he is swallowing his very long tongue — no. He sounds as though he is being *forced* to swallow *many* very long tongues at *once*. 

And Mother raises an eyebrow at him. 

"I... no. Mother —" 

'"Do you know if he has a *knot*, tricky boy?" 

Porthos yelps like a *dog* — 

"Oh — *yes*, Mother —" 

Porthos shifts back to human-form — 

Mother turns back to face him. "I did not ask you to do that, Porthos." 

"I — I — I'd like to *know* how Aramis knows —" 

"The All-Mother told me, my Porthos! And *showed* me. *Vigorously*." 

"She did what." 

"My Porthos! You already *knew* that She had fucked me —" 

"I didn't know She *knotted* you —" 

Mother clears her throat. *Firmly*. 

Aramis stands *straight* — and so does Porthos. 

Porthos turns to Mother. "My apologies, Mademoiselle. I... ah..." 

"You meant to be the *first* person to knot my son." 

Porthos blushes *deeply*. "... yes." 

"Even though you knew that this would take some measure of *preparation*." 

"... yes. I —" 

"Even though... well. How big *is* your knot when you're fully erect, Porthos?" 

If anything, Porthos blushes even *more* deeply, but this is important information! 

Oh — "The All-Mother intimated that his knot — and cock — were significantly larger than what She was using on me, Mother." 

Mother looks pointedly at Porthos's groin. 

Porthos shifts on his *feet* — stops. "Mademoiselle, I would be more than willing to show you what I will give to my mate, if you wish me to do so, but I think the information you need is this: I have been trained — ruthlessly, by my parents — to have *absolute* control over my sexual responses. I will *not* hurt Aramis, no matter *how* aroused I become." 

Mother raises an eyebrow again. 

Porthos stands firm. 

Mother looks to *him*. 

"He has *much* control, Mother, but I have not *truly* tested him." 

"Do you feel confident in his ability to *judge* his control?" 

"I do, Mother! He has told me of the teaching methods his parents have used when they've needed to be ruthless about *other* things, and Porthos's control in *general* makes very much sense!"

Mother nods slowly for this — 

*Studies* Porthos — 

Studies Porthos for long *moments* — 

Porthos clasps his hands behind his back and *waits* —

And then Mother turns back to *him*. "Will he have *too* much control for you?" 

"I have worried about this!" 

"Yes, tricky boy? What caused you to stop?" 

"There are moments when I have seen my Porthos's tight lead on himself slip, just a little. He has not hurt me, or even come close to hurting me — most of the time he has not so much as *touched* me! But... ah, Maman, it is difficult to explain!" 

"You believe you can *drive* him to break his controls without *also* driving him to *injure* you?" 

"I will *never* —" 

Mother holds up a hand to Porthos — 

Porthos shuts his *mouth* — 

And Aramis wags his head back and forth. "There is that...? But I think..." He frowns...

"Yes, tricky boy?" 

"I told you in my note that the All-Mother made me *know* certain things about Porthos, Maman..." 

"'Porthos will give you everything you desire.'" 

"Yes! Yes, that!" 

Porthos *grunts* — 

And Mother *looks* at Porthos.

Porthos smiles happily, almost *loosely*. "It's true, Mademoiselle. Pleasing Aramis — pleasing my *mate* — isn't just *my* pleasure, it's *instinct*. Nothing's right in my world when Aramis isn't happy." 

"So you will let him lead you in all things...?" 

"He'll lead me in every way he *needs* to, Mademoiselle. I... suspect he may wish to *be* led in some few ways." 

Aramis *beams* — 

Porthos rumbles — 

"And when other wolves wish to knot him?" 

Aramis *chokes* — 

Porthos's eyes are *wide* — 

Mother raises her eyebrow *high* —

And Porthos coughs into his fist and recovers. "*If* Aramis wishes to have that sort of relationship with another wolf, then it will be fine — with a few caveats." 

"And those are?" 

"First — my scents have to be all *over* him. That's non-negotiable." 

Aramis nods. This is well!

"Second — the wolf has to either be part of the larger pack, or about to *become* part of the larger pack. Aramis is allowed to make love with whomever he wishes —" 

"No! I am *not*!" 

Porthos flares his nostrils — but does not refute him. 

Mother says nothing, only folds her hands in front of herself. 

After a moment, Porthos says, "I've wanted to discuss this with you, precious love." 

"I —" 

"I've wanted to set the *rules* with you." 

Aramis flushes, but does not look away from his Porthos's beautiful eyes. "My Porthos belongs to his pack, and the pack belongs to Porthos. I do not understand this as well as I *could*, yet, but I know that my Porthos will *help* me to understand." 

"I will." 

"So. My Porthos belongs to *me* even more than this, and *I* belong to my *Porthos* most of *all*." 

"Yes," Porthos says, and looks *deep* into Aramis's eyes. 

"This is *well*. This will always be so!" 

"*Yes*." 

"I will be a *part* of the pack, yes?" 

"You already are, love. And you always *will* be." 

Aramis purrs and purrs — "*So*. I will — *we* will — *only* make love to other members of the pack. You will have no other pretty boys or girls! And my Porthos will never have to fear that his Aramis is giving himself to some *strange* wolf." 

Porthos growls — but his eyes are wild and hot and *thrilled*. "You're perfect." 

Aramis reaches for Porthos's hands — 

And Mother tugs Aramis's hair *hard*. 

Aramis *drops* his hands — 

*Porthos* has never moved his hands from behind his back — 

And Mother hums and looks to Porthos. "You are pleased with my tricky boy's rules." 

"Very much so. I'd already planned to stop making love with people outside the pack —" 

"Why is this?" 

"I knew it upset Aramis, Mademoiselle. Aramis is my mate, and I was raised to *prepare* myself for him. To prepare my *life* for him. In many ways, everything that led up to this point was... waiting." 

"'Everything'...?" 

"You understand that I am bound to my pack by forces stronger than blood, but... that's also how I'm bound to Aramis, Mademoiselle. I've never been able to give all of myself to *anyone*. I've wanted to. I've *needed* to. But..." 

"Your heart — your soul — was locked away, at least in part." 

"Yes." 

"And it is the same with your siblings?" 

"Yes — though they're wonderful people, and warm, and loving —" 

Mother holds up a hand to Porthos, and turns to *him*. 

"I have not felt a *lack* from Odile or Lucien, Maman. I want to spend more time with them, and to learn from them." 

"Do you wish to make love with them?" 

"I!" 

Mother looks at him. 

Aramis blushes. "I... do not know." 

"No, tricky boy...?" 

"No, Maman. I have not seen enough of their wolves," Aramis says, and blinks — 

"That answer surprised you..." 

"I — *yes*, Maman —" 

"It shouldn't have. I've raised you to *require* truth from everyone who would count themselves worthy of you." 

"Oh — oh, yes! I see!" 

Mother purrs and pushes her hand *through* his hair — 

Aramis purrs — 

Porthos grins — 

"Maman..." 

"Yes, tricky boy?" 

"Treville, Porthos's father, his wolf is *very* handsome —" 

Porthos coughs for some reason — 

"*Is* he." 

"Oh, yes! Very big, and silver and white, and it is clear that he is very wise and very warm —" 

"Like your Porthos...?" 

"He and Porthos fuss and grizzle much, Maman, but that is because they are very much alike —" 

"And you desire Treville?" Mother is still stroking Aramis's hair — 

Porthos *yelps* again —

And Aramis smiles and smiles and smiles. "Mostly, Maman, I am hoping my Porthos begins to see how ridiculous it is that he can make love to his brothers and sisters — without a moment's pause or hesitation! — and *still* consider it hopelessly outré to think of his parents in a sexual light." 

And then he and Mother look at Porthos. 

Porthos looks back. Woundedly. 

Mother hums, and strokes Aramis more. "Tricky boy, your Porthos may need time to think about this." 

"But —" 

"I know; the logic is crystalline." 

"Yes! And my Porthos is not a stupid man!" 

"No, my tricky boy has better taste than this," Mother says, and strokes him firmly, warmly, lovingly — 

Aramis moves in for another hug — 

Mother squeezes him — 

Porthos is still *staring* — 

"Many men, it is sad to say, need time to come to terms with their sexual contradictions and illogic, tricky boy." 

"Oh, yes, I see! You have taught me this lesson already." 

Mother hums. 

Porthos shakes himself all over — 

Opens his mouth to say something — a high-pitched noise comes out. 

He clears his throat and tries again. "Mademoiselle. Aramis. I will not stop *either* of you from making love to the elder members of our pack, should you come to desire it —" 

"My Porthos," Aramis says, and *looks* at him. "Not without you," he says, in a voice *designed* to make *any* man feel the sands falling through the hourglass. 

Porthos swallows — 

Mother laughs *hard*. "*Now*, Porthos. *Now* you may take me somewhere I may wash the road-dust off, and then relax and refresh myself. And perhaps meet the rest of your — pack...?" 

Porthos looks *very* relieved. "Right this way, Mademoiselle."


	15. Overall, it's shaping up to be a pretty good day.

By the time Mother was finished washing, an early supper was nearly finished, and so they had gone straight to the dining room and enjoyed a long and convivial and warm and long and cheerful and *long* — 

Porthos had spent the entire meal with his long, strong thigh pressed to Aramis's own — 

Porthos had periodically flared his nostrils and *smiled* down at him, hot and *promising* —

Mother had laughed at Aramis *every* time she'd caught his eye. 

*Mother* had spent the meal deep in conversation with *Amina*, occasionally breaking off to add to something Jason or Treville had said. 

Odile had eaten and eaten and — 

Leered at him and Porthos. 

And eaten more. 

And leered *wolfishly* — 

With many sharp teeth — 

Porthos had growled at her for that, low and *threatening* — 

Odile had *yipped* laughter, bright and mocking — but her teeth had gone back to being human in appearance, and she had not leered again. 

Aramis had licked his lips — 

Mother had nodded *slowly* — 

And neither Amina nor Treville had said or done *anything*. 

This, then, was proper. 

Porthos had *said* nothing could happen with other wolves until Aramis was covered in his scents. 

Odile was misbehaving —

And Aramis had spent the rest of the meal thinking even more deeply about all the ways he could be covered in Porthos's scents. 

He had managed to eat well enough — with Porthos's help — but, by the time they were excused — 

By the time *Mother* had excused him, kissing him all over his face and reminding him, in Caló, that he would always be *her* tricky boy, that nothing would change that, that nothing *could* ever change that, no matter how many wolves he allowed to mount him —

Well, Aramis had been blushing and protesting and wondering why Jason, of all people, was smiling as though he knew exactly what was being *said* — 

And then Mother had nipped his ear and released him, and it had been the most *frightening* thing — but she had reached for Porthos, and kissed his mouth and both cheeks and nipped *his* ear — 

Porthos had rumbled and grinned and *licked* her — 

And that... 

"I will be staying in the suite next to *yours*, my tricky boy," she'd said, reminding him that he *had* a suite separate from Porthos's — 

Reminding him that she would *be* there — 

"Yes, Maman," Aramis had said, and felt much better. And then he'd pressed himself to Porthos's side and allowed himself to be led away. 

Now... 

Now, they are here, in Porthos's suite — 

And there are fresh flowers, including honeysuckle, obviously gathered before they had left the other estate — 

There is not much *light*... but. Porthos does not need much. 

And Aramis will not need much *soon*. 

He shivers and touches the big, sweet-smelling bed. 

Porthos makes a soft sound and cups Aramis's shoulders. "Please tell me what's wrong." 

"I am... a little intimidated, my Porthos," Aramis says, and blushes. 

Porthos leans in and licks his temple. "Anything that seems like too much? We don't have to do." 

"*Porthos*!" 

"All right, trying again: Anything that seems like too much? We don't have to do right *away*." 

"I..." Aramis nods. "That is better." 

"Good," Porthos says, laughing softly and stroking down Aramis's arms with his big hands, up Aramis's belly and chest... 

"Oh, my Porthos..." 

"You like this..." 

"Yes, my Porthos — I want to feel your hands on my *skin*." 

Porthos takes a breath. "You want to... take off some clothes?" 

"Is this well?" 

Porthos laughs low and *hungry*. "I've dreamed of seeing you naked, precious..." 

Oh... Aramis smiles. "Only... seeing me?" 

Porthos rumbles. "It's fairly dark in here," he says, and strokes down to the hollows of Aramis's hips. "I might have to... see with my hands..." 

Aramis giggles. "Porthos! *You* can see perfectly well!" 

"Mm, but you can't," Porthos says, and licks Aramis's temples, right, then left. "Let's get some more light in here." 

"Oh — you don't have to —" 

"No...?" And Porthos peers over Aramis's shoulder and tilts Aramis's face up. "Why's that, mm?" 

"You are going to *turn* me, my Porthos. I will see just as well as you do!" 

Porthos exhales *hungrily*. "You want me to turn you right away, precious...?" 

"Yes!" 

Porthos growls and tugs Aramis back against him — 

Lets Aramis feel his *very* hard *cock* — 

"Oh, my Porthos must *ache* —" 

"Every taste of you on the air... strokes me." 

Aramis grunts — 

And Porthos squeezes Aramis's hips. "Where should I bite you, precious love, mm? Where should I mark you *forever*." 

Aramis *gasps* — 

His cock *jerks* — 

And Porthos *cups* it through Aramis's clothes! 

"Oh, my Porthos! Please!" 

"Just this, precious...?" 

"I made very much money for Madame Margaud's because I was *not* trained to *take* pleasure, my Porthos." 

"Oh — shit." 

Aramis grins. "You like this...? My mother, she had *no* intention of allowing me to sell my *arse*, and this can make a client very impatient and annoyed!" 

"I —" 

"But if their boy-whore has the *responses* of a virgin, or as close to one as is possible —" 

"The client loses his mind and spends himself blind and comes back for more *immediately*?" 

"Yes! You see!" 

"That's *diabolical*, precious. I approve wholeheartedly," Porthos says, and grins down at him. "But... mm. I don't want you to spend in those clothes..." 

"Oh, no, they are too nice for this —" 

Porthos laughs hard. "Precious, wolves leak *copiously*. The people who do our laundry... well, let's just say they're used to it." 

"I. Hm." 

"I don't want you to spend in those clothes because I don't want anything interrupting..." He growls again. "All those perfect scents," he says, and *squeezes* Aramis through his clothes. 

Aramis gasps and reaches up to grip Porthos's arms — 

Pushes *into* Porthos's squeeze — 

Gasps *again* — 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles — "Maybe I should get you out of those clothes myself..." 

"Please. Please fast —" 

Porthos growls and lifts him — 

Turns him and kisses him — 

Kisses him so deeply, so deeply — 

Fucks Aramis's *mouth* and cups Aramis's *arse*, and he's so strong, so powerful, so *big*, and he's growling the entire *time* — 

Aramis sucks his tongue, teases it, tries to show his *skill*, but all he wants to do is *feel* his Porthos, feel him *take* — 

Porthos pulls back — 

"No, no, do not stop —" 

"What's wrong, mm? Your scents changed." And Porthos is searching him, studying him — 

"I — I — *please*." 

"You have to tell me what's wrong when you're distressed, precious. You have to let me take care of my *mate*... or. Do you need to focus on other things right now?" 

Oh... 

Aramis cups Porthos's face — 

Pushes his hands into Porthos's curls — 

Porthos rumbles *softly* — 

And Aramis whimpers and presses his hot face against Porthos's ear. "I. I wanted to be skillful for you..." 

"I don't need that." 

"I *wanted* to be. My Porthos has had many lovers, many good lovers —" 

"None of them were you. None of them were my *mate* —" 

"You *touch* me and all I wish to do is lie down and *take*!" 

"Oh, precious..." 

"I must do better than —" 

"Listen to your instincts, precious," Porthos says, and *puts* Aramis on the bed — 

"Oh, my Porthos —" 

"Listen to..." And Porthos growls and growls and rolls his head on his *neck* — "Listen to your *need*." 

"But —" 

"And I'll listen to *mine*," he says, and removes Aramis's boots — 

His socks — 

He caresses Aramis's *feet* — 

"My Porthos —" 

"I *need* you to take me, precious. To... hrrn. To take *all* of me." 

Aramis *bucks* — 

Porthos's eyes *flare* green — 

"Oh, yes!" 

And Porthos growls low and *claws* down over Aramis's groin through his trousers — 

"*Please*!" 

"*Yes*," Porthos says, and then — 

Then he is using his *speed*, moving Aramis this way and that, arching Aramis up, stripping Aramis *down* — 

Until Aramis is panting and bare, naked atop the duvet and *spread* — and Porthos is flaring his nostrils again and again. 

Aramis *reaches* for him — 

"You never told me where you wanted to be marked..." 

Aramis's stomach *drops* — "You must choose, my Porthos! Please!" 

Porthos growls. "You're going to wear your hair long for the rest of your life." 

"What — what?" 

And then Porthos turns Aramis over onto his *belly*. He — 

*Oh* — 

Aramis scrambles up onto his knees and lowers his head — 

Porthos snarls and *shoves* Aramis back down — 

"Oh, my Porthos! That was wrong?" 

"For — now. Just for now," Porthos says, and the growl under his voice is low and hungry and *strained*." 

Aramis *moans* — 

He feels flushed all *over* — 

"Please, my Porthos, what do you *wish*?" 

"This," Porthos says, and touches his tongue to the base of Aramis's spine — 

Licks up and up and up — 

Aramis shivers — 

Moans — 

*Wriggles* — 

And then Porthos turns his head and *bites* the back of Aramis's neck. Holds him — 

*Shakes* him, just a little — 

Aramis grunts and *stills* himself immediately — 

He will not move!

He will not move.

Porthos growls and growls and... licks him. Licks his nape and the sides of his throat and down to the space between his shoulder blades and back to his nape — 

Aramis shivers *helplessly* — 

"Here, precious," Porthos says, and licks again. 

"Yes? Yes?" 

"Yes. *Now*," Porthos says, and *bites* — 

Bites *hard*, and it feels, for a moment, as though he will take Aramis's *spine* — Porthos's teeth are so long, so sharp! — but Aramis can tell, after a moment, that the bite is shallow — 

That Porthos has not *hurt* him — 

Porthos will never *hurt* him — 

Porthos is lapping and lapping and *growling* — 

Gripping Aramis's arms —

Holding him *down* — 

And Aramis can feel — 

Warmth. 

Power. So much — 

Aramis can feel *his* power, feel it *reaching* for Porthos — and feel Porthos reaching for him, reaching for him in countless *ways* — 

Every reach is *caught* — 

Their power is *blending* inside Aramis! Growing and rolling *through* him, and everything is so — 

They are *mated*, and every part of him *knows* this, feels this, *tastes* this on the *air* — 

Aramis is growling again — 

He is *crooning* — 

He can smell his own *powerful* musk — 

He can smell Porthos's need, his hunger, his thrill, his *joy* — 

He can smell Porthos's *joy*!

(I've never been happier in my life, precious...) 

Aramis *grunts* — 

Blinks — 

Porthos? My Porthos? My — my — 

(Yours....) And Porthos pulls back and licks his way down Aramis's back. (Yours forever,) Porthos says, *inside* him, and his voice is warm and low and full — 

It *fills* Aramis!

(Oh, precious...) 

My Porthos, my Porthos, do not stop talking!

Porthos rumbles and nips Aramis's arsecheeks — 

"Oh —" 

(Tell me I can taste you, precious...) 

Aramis grunts and *shoves* against the bed — Should — should I turn over — 

"Hrr." (No.) 

Aramis gasps and *croons* — 

Blushes *hard* — 

Lowers his *head* — 

(Oh, precious... you're so beautiful,) Porthos says, and kisses the base of Aramis's spine. (You're so perfect and lovely. You know I want to taste you everywhere, don't you...?)

I — 

(You know I *need* it...) And Porthos *shares* his need, shares Aramis's scents the way *he* experiences them — 

The way Aramis *can* experience them if he just — 

Breathes in. 

Aramis croons again — 

Again and *again* — 

He is so *hard* — 

He cannot keep from spreading his *legs* — 

His scents *rise* — 

(Precious *baby*...) 

Porthos — my Porthos — 

(Here,) Porthos says, and spreads Aramis's *arse* — 

"UNH —" 

(Oh, look how *perfect* —) And Porthos growls and licks a long, *wet* stripe up Aramis's cleft — 

Aramis clenches and *whines* — 

(Make all the noise you *want*,) Porthos says, and licks again, *again* — 

"Porthos, *please*!" 

(Do you *like* it...?) 

Aramis sobs and *shakes* — 

Writhes in Porthos's *grip* — 

He's holding Aramis's hips so *tightly* — 

He's licking so *much* — 

Aramis whines again, whines so — 

He needs — 

He needs to be touched more on his *hole*, but he doesn't know how to *say* that — 

(Just. Like. *That*,) Porthos says, and shoves his tongue *deep* — 

Aramis gasps — 

Goes *rigid* — 

And then Porthos starts *fucking* him with his tongue, his long tongue, his slick and long and *muscular* — 

Aramis *screams* — but it comes out howled, high and desperate and *loud* — 

It comes out so — 

So *animal* — 

(You're *mine*!) 

Aramis *bucks* and howls *again* — 

Porthos growls into him, laughs, fucks Aramis fast, *fast* — 

Aramis is shaking, sweating, clawing at the duvet — 

He's leaking so *much* — 

He can't stop — 

He's *clenching* around Porthos's tongue — 

He can't *stop* — 

And then Porthos *kisses* Aramis's hole, kisses and sucks it so *hard* —

Aramis howls *again* and *spurts*, feeling his body twist, change, *urge* — 

Feeling himself grow *larger* even as he spurts and spurts — 

He cannot *control* — 

(But I can,) Porthos says, and *grips* him —

Grips his *spirit* — 

Holds him still and *steady* — 

Aramis *yips* and spurts *more* — 

(*Good* boy,) Porthos says, flipping him over and licking him clean — 

Licking his *fur* clean — 

Oh — 

*Oh*!

His fur is *chestnut* — 

And cream — 

And tan — 

(You're beautiful.) 

His cock is *massive*!

(And delicious,) Porthos says, and *swallows* it right down to the *knot* — but he does not suck. 

He does not — 

(You're too sensitive for that — or are you?) And Porthos looks up at him with his hot green eyes — 

Porthos studies him — 

Porthos is still *holding* him *inside* — 

Which means that a part of Aramis must have been about to shift to the full-wolf form... 

(That's right. We're going to avoid that.) 

Aramis looks at his hands — 

His *furred* and *clawed* hands — 

He licks his — muzzle — 

He *yips* for the feel of his *teeth* — 

And Porthos pulls back and kneels up. "I don't think you're ready for this form, yet, either." 

"My Porthos —" But the words are so hard to say! He is salivating and growling and — 

His ears droop — 

He *whines* — 

"Shh, shh," Porthos says, and hauls Aramis closer. It is plain that this takes more effort than once it had, but he still manages, and he gets Aramis sprawled over his lap and in his arms and he is... so warm. 

So big. 

So... 

"Better?" 

Aramis tries nodding, but it feels so strange with his muzzle — he does not whine again. Yes, my Porthos, this is better. 

"Good. We're going to get you to shift back. It's an important lesson to learn anyway, mm?" 

Yes, my Porthos. I will learn!

"Good boy. Now, reach for your power —" 

Oh! It is so easy now!

Porthos grins. "*Good*. Now I want you to reach for what's connecting you to *me*." 

Yes? Yes? 

"You're going to let me help you a little more, precious." 

Oh — oh, always!

Porthos rumbles and licks Aramis's muzzle — 

His breath is so musky — 

So — 

*Aramis* is rumbling and licking Porthos back, licking him all over his face, trying to lick into his mouth, trying to push him down, hold him still for *better* licking — 

Porthos laughs and holds him still. "Oi, there, pup, hold on —" 

Aramis pulls back. I am your pup? 

"My *precious* pup." 

I am always precious? 

"More precious than the crown jewels and all the scrolls in the library of Alexandria." 

Aramis rumbles and rumbles and pushes close — 

Porthos *grips* him — "Reach for me."

You cannot reach for me? 

"I can — but you need to learn this lesson, precious love." 

Oh — Aramis *reaches* — 

"There you are. You don't have to do it so hard in the future — I can feel you holding me *tight* — but now you know how to *get* to me, no matter what. No matter how far away I am. Our *magery* will *always* be connected." 

This is so? 

"Absolutely," Porthos says, and licks his lips. "You're *never* getting away from me." 

Oh, my *Porthos*!

"You like that..." 

It is proper! 

Porthos rumbles. "My perfect, beautiful love. Are you ready to shift back?" 

You may have me as you wish me! I will not panic!

"All is well, precious. We have time to play in *all* our forms." 

I — 

"And you need to be *properly* stretched in human-form," Porthos says, and smiles exactly like the wolf he is. 

Oh — oh — do it, my Porthos! Do it!

"Good boy," Porthos says, and grips his *spirit* again — 

*Holds* him — 

Holds him so *firmly*, so *warmly* — 

And the shift, this time, is slow. 

Aramis feels himself shrinking and shrinking — 

Becoming less *furry* — 

There is pain, but it is the pain of stretching after working hard, moving the way one's body *wants* to move, moving *correctly* — 

Moving the way his mate *wishes* him to move. 

Aramis rumbles and rumbles and wraps himself *tightly* around his Porthos, once he is back in human-form. 

Porthos rumbles back. "My precious ought to let me take off a few things..." 

Aramis sucks his teeth. "Always my Porthos is so *slow*!" 

"You're *absolutely* right, precious. Let's do something about that," Porthos says, and *drops* Aramis down onto his back — 

"I —" 

And then moves off the bed and starts to strip himself. And... 

Aramis can tell that he's moving quickly — more quickly than a human could! — but... 

But Aramis can track every move. 

Aramis thinks *he* could move that fast now!

"You could, precious," Porthos says, and crawls back onto the bed, naked and beautiful and perfect. 

He had said something, but — 

But... 

Aramis must *see*! He must examine, and study — 

Touch — 

Porthos is rumbling and laughing — 

Porthos is guiding him to touch more *firmly* — 

"Oh, my Porthos... you are hardly furry at all!" 

"In human-form? Not so much. Mum's people don't run to it." 

"Ohh..." Aramis pets more... 

Strokes the bit of soft hair on his belly —

On his thighs...

He reaches up to pet Porthos's beard...

And Porthos laughs hard. "I think my precious is trying to tell me something..." 

"I — mm?" 

Porthos laughs more and pulls Aramis into his *arms* — and then *shifts*. 

"*Oh*!" 

(How's this, then...?) 

"I... I... my Porthos should, of course, take whatever form he *wishes*," Aramis says, and cuddles in — 

Nuzzles — 

Scoots closer — 

Porthos whuffs and yips laughter and *presses* their groins together — 

And his cock is... very, very big. Sleek. Thick. *Hot*. 

*Big* — 

Aramis pulls back to *look* at it —

Very red. Very — very big. 

Aramis licks his lips. 

He frowns. 

Porthos yips another laugh. (We'll have to do *some* things in human-form *first*, precious love.) 

"Yes, we *will*, my Porthos!" 

Porthos yips *more* — 

"*But*," Aramis says, and *grips* Porthos's mighty cock with both hands, "there are those other things..."


	16. Things to get used to.

Porthos growls low and *hungry* — 

Aramis beams and *strokes*, gathering the *copious* slick with one hand and licking it away while stroking *firmly* with the other — 

(Precious...) 

Aramis *slurps* away the slick to tease — 

And Porthos growls even *lower*. 

"Oh, my *Porthos*. Do you wish to bite me again?" 

Porthos licks his muzzle. (I do and I will.) 

Aramis gasps — and does *not* stop stroking. "You will bite me all the time? Mark me all over?" 

(Oh, precious...) 

"Please tell me!" 

Porthos *thrusts* into Aramis's fist once, *twice* — 

Aramis *rumbles* — 

Strokes with *both* hands —

Works his hands in opposite directions — 

Porthos *snarls* — 

Bucks again — 

*Again* — 

Aramis rumbles and *grins* — 

Squeezes *firmly* — 

(*Precious* —) 

"You must tell me!" 

Porthos pants *hot* in Aramis's face — 

Growls and growls — 

"I will. Take your *blood*." 

"Yes!" 

"I will *mark* you." 

"*Yes*!" 

Porthos *snaps* — but not *at* Aramis. 

"Oh, my *Porthos*..." 

(We have to... use our power to mark ourselves.) 

"What? But..." 

"Hrrrn." (You were human when I scarred you, precious love. Now? You're not,) Porthos says, and *gleams* at him. 

Aramis blinks and blinks — 

Thinks of the silver crucifix Julio had shown him as a 'gift' Aramis could earn through 'good behaviour'... 

And *this* growl is purely aggressive. 

"My Porthos, I apologize —" 

Porthos licks his face — 

Licks him all *over* his face — 

Rumbles and soothes and *grips* Aramis's *arms* with his huge, clawed hands — 

"Oh, my Porthos, no, no, I am well! I never *wanted* — mm — I — oh, yes — I never wanted the crucifix!" 

(No...?) And Porthos *squeezes* Aramis's arms — 

Licks his *throat* — 

*Slowly* — 

Aramis shivers and strokes and strokes — 

(Stop that for now.) 

"My Porthos —" 

(Just for now.) 

Aramis inhales sharply — 

Breathes in his Porthos's heavy, rich, wild *musk* — 

Breathes it *deep*, and he's whining, *whining* — 

(Oh, precious baby... you're right. We'll save the talking for later.) 

"Yes — yes, please —" 

(Do you know what you need?) 

"I ache!" 

Porthos licks him and licks him — (I need to spend before I fuck you, precious —) 

Aramis *strokes* his Porthos, *works* his beautiful thick cock — 

So red — 

So *tender* — 

Porthos growls and rolls his head on his neck — (You feel so right. So *perfect*. Your hands are so *strong*.) 

"My Porthos has *made* them strong!" 

Porthos *pumps* into Aramis's fists again — 

Over and *over* — 

Pants and *croons* — 

Thrusts *faster* — 

"Oh, yes, oh, *yes*!" 

(You like it when. When I fuck your pretty hands?) 

Aramis means to say *yes*, but all that comes out is a desperately-excited *yip* — 

Porthos *rumbles* — 

Lolls his tongue — 

Fucks Aramis's hands *harder* — 

"Please, yes! Please — oh, Porthos, your knot is so *big*!" 

(Touch it. Touch it and see what *happens*.) 

"Yes, my Porthos! Yes, yes —" And Aramis squeezes — 

Porthos throws his great head back and *howls* — 

His cock spits slick all over *both* of them — 

It's dripping from Aramis's *chin* — 

He wants to lick it away — he *can*! He lolls his own tongue and licks and licks — 

Squeezes *again* —

Porthos howls *louder* — and *throws* Aramis down to the bed! 

Porthos holds him down, presses him *down* — 

Holds Aramis's arms *spread* and *fucks* against Aramis's aching *cock* — 

Aramis *howls* — 

"My. *Boy*!" 

Yes, yes, he wants to say yes, everything is *yes* — 

Porthos snarls and *grinds* against him, thrusts hard and fast and *wild* — 

So *slick* — 

So *hot* — 

Aramis's cock is twitching and jerking and leaking all *over* them, he can't — 

Aramis is crooning and begging, trying to *arch* under Porthos's *weight* — 

Porthos's wonderful *weight* — 

Porthos is grinding him down into the *mattress* — 

*Working* Aramis's cock with his own — 

Panting and *growling* — 

Snapping at the *air* — 

He is so hot, so hungry, so *hot* — 

Aramis spreads his legs *wider* — 

He needs to take, he needs to *take* — 

Porthos howls and *spurts* — 

Spatters Aramis everywhere with his spend, his thick, hot, wild spend — 

Aramis wants to taste!

Porthos is still fucking against him, still *spurting*, still *howling* — 

Shoving so *hard* — 

His knot is so fat and *firm* against Aramis's cock, crushed against his *cock* — 

Fucking him so — 

And this is only the beginning... 

(That's. *Right*.) 

My Porthos —

(Spend for me!) 

Aramis grunts and *tries* to buck, tries to *arch* against Porthos's weight, Porthos's *force* — 

(Spend while I'm *fucking* you!) 

And *Aramis's* knot throbs, sending heat all *through* him — 

He clenches *hard* — 

He gasps — and *chokes* on a howl as he spurts and spurts and *spurts*. 

"Hrrr..." And Porthos fucks him through it, thrusts and *thrusts* — 

*Gives* Aramis his cock the way he will — 

Aramis croaks and *whines* — 

Spurts *more* — 

Porthos rumbles and licks him, licks him and nuzzles him and rumbles more — 

Aramis slumps — 

Porthos *licks* him more — and then rolls them over until *he* is on his back and Aramis is sprawled and panting atop him — 

And then he shifts back to human form. 

"Oh, my — my Porthos!" 

"You're such a *good* boy, precious..." 

"I am your boy?" 

"Everything. *Everything* we both *love*," Porthos says, and strokes down Aramis's back — 

Cups Aramis's arse — 

*Squeezes* — "I want to mark you every way possible, you know..." 

"Oh, yes?" 

Porthos licks his lips. 

Aramis beams and *wriggles*. "I am yours! All must know this thing." 

Porthos's still-hard — but smaller than before — cock *jerks*. It — hm. 

Aramis had not examined it *properly* before. He wriggles down Porthos's body — 

"Oi, now, love, where are *you* going?" 

"I must examine your — oh, but you still have a knot!" 

"Of course I do — oh, but you don't know much about werewolf anatomy —" 

"No, I do not!" 

"Right, well, in human-form? The knot stays hidden until we're *really* aroused." 

This would explain why *his* knot still feels very big, but — "Yes? And the foreskin? It does not look very thick..." 

"It's not, compared to the sheath I have in that halfway-form, but it's still thicker than a *purely* human foreskin." 

Aramis touches — 

Strokes and tugs — 

"Yes, I see! How sensitive is it compared to a human foreskin?" 

"Well, you understand that I can't know for *certain* —" 

"Yes, yes —" 

Porthos grins and sits up on his elbows. "When I've compared *notes*? The human boys and men I've talked to about it have *mostly* said theirs was more sensitive than mine." 

"Oh, no!" 

"*But*? They've also said their *cocks* were *less* sensitive." 

"Ohh..." 

Porthos waggles his eyebrows. 

Aramis giggles — "My Porthos!" 

Porthos grins again and strokes Aramis's face with his rough, callused fingers. "You can examine your own, you know —" 

"Yours is much more *interesting*, my Porthos!" 

"I don't know about *that* —" 

"*Porthos*." 

"Mm?" 

"Already you denigrate the opinions of your mate?" 

"I —" 

"Your only mate?" 

"Shit —" 

"Your young and vulnerable —" 

Porthos *coughs* a laugh. "Right, this is where we talk about how we both feel about *spankings*, *Aramis*." 

"Oh, my *Porthos*." 

"Yes? You like that idea?" 

"Mother never allowed this thing from the men I was sold to!" 

Porthos rumbles. "No...? And none of them... took liberties?" 

Aramis kneels up between Porthos's thighs and strokes through the spend on his chest. "The guards, they were right outside the room, my Porthos. And the men *knew* this thing. They were searched for weapons and stripped of them before being *allowed* their 'privacy' with me." 

Porthos nods approvingly. "Suck your fingers, precious." 

Aramis licks his *teeth*. "Yes, my Porthos," he says, and obeys — 

And croons — 

And gathers more spend to lick and lap and suckle — 

His cock is starting to *ache* again, already!

"Is it, now..." 

Aramis nods and nods and slurps messily — 

"Oh, little precious, you drive me *mad*." Porthos scoots back against the headboard and gestures a come-on. "To me, now. Let me have you." 

"Oh, my Porthos — you will spank me?" 

Porthos grins. "Unless you have objections..." 

"I... is it punishment?" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Not unless you *want* it to be." 

Aramis licks his lips. "I have this choice?" 

Porthos nods. "Until we agree it's time for me to take it away." 

Ohh...

"Do you need time to think about —" 

"No! I do not wish for my Porthos to punish me," Aramis says and crawls close, but — 

Porthos doesn't let him lay himself out over his lap. 

"My Porthos... no?" 

Porthos licks his lips — and flares his nostrils. "Precious love. Precious *baby*. Remember — if you *don't* like this, we'll stop." 

"But —" 

"Even though *I* like it *most* of the time, I *won't* like it if *you* don't." 

"But training is *important*, my Porthos." 

"Uh." 

"I may not like something right *away*. You must give your mate *time* to *experience* things." 

Porthos stares at him very stupidly.

And then he *coughs* a laugh — 

And then he *grins*. "Right you are, precious." 

"Yes, my Porthos?" 

"Absolutely — but you still can't lay over my lap." 

"*Porthos*!" 

"I want you *this* way, precious..." 

"Oh. Yes?"

Porthos pulls Aramis closer — "Let's get those legs over mine... there we are..." And he rumbles *deep*. "I want to fuck you just this way..." 

"Oh, my Porthos — not on my face and knees?" 

"*Every* way. Though you'll have an easier time — hm. You've used toys, though, haven't you." 

"Oh, yes! Several!" 

Porthos pulls Aramis even closer — and rumbles in his *ear*. 

Aramis shivers — 

"Your little hole's anything but virginal..." 

"*Porthos*!" 

"Oh, I'll grant that you've had no *proper* cocks up there —" 

"And no fingers other than my *own*!"

"But you've opened yourself up just a *bit* for me. Haven't you." 

For — oh...

Porthos licks Aramis's ear *slowly*. So — 

Aramis shivers again. "You are my mate." 

"That's right, precious..." 

"Everything... *everything* I've done to prepare myself... has been for you," Aramis says, and blushes *hard*. 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles and *spreads* Aramis's arse — 

"Ai —" 

"Precious baby... you're all mine...." 

"Yes — yes —" 

"And everything I've done to prepare *myself*... has been for *you*." 

Aramis *grunts* — and pushes back against Porthos's hold on him until he is allowed to pull back far enough to meet Porthos's gaze. It — "This is so?" 

Porthos's eyes are wide and full and serious. "I'm yours." 

Aramis blushes *harder* — "Mine forever." 

"Yours forever. You can feel it, can't you?"

"It — it is so big in me... so... much," Aramis says, and ducks his head. 

Porthos licks Aramis's temples. "What can I do, mm?" 

"I do not — no." 

"Mm?" 

"Please —" Aramis looks up again. "Please keep reminding me, just like this. Please keep *showing* me." 

Porthos grins. "Happily." 

"Yes? It will not... grow stale?" 

"You don't know how much I've ached to tell you I love you. All the *ways* I love you, and your passion, your fire, your brilliance, your warmth, your kindness, your loving *soul*, your *curiosity*, your —" 

"My *Porthos*." 

Porthos smiles slyly. "Perhaps I'll save some for later...? I promise to repeat myself *incessantly*." 

Aramis blushes and rumbles and licks his Porthos, licks him all over his face — 

"There's my pretty pup, there's my perfect little pretty pup —" 

"I am pretty?" 

"You're bloody gorgeous —" 

"No, but — when I am a *wolf*." 

Porthos growls and grins. "I can't wait to mount you in that form, precious —" 

"Oh —" 

"I can't wait to *explore* every *inch* of that form —" 

"It — it... please, my Porthos, I would like to look at myself!" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows — but doesn't question him before nodding. "I'm going to help you shift again, precious. You'll start the process yourself, but I'll keep you from going too far. All right?" 

"Oh — oh. It is well?" 

Porthos caresses his face. "It is. I promise." 

Aramis licks his lips and nods. He can smell his Porthos's honesty. "Please tell me what I must do!"

"You looked at your hands when you were shifted. Remember them?" 

"I will never forget!" 

"Reach for that memory —" 

"Oh —" And then Aramis is *crooning*, because he's shifting, growing, changing so fast, so *fast*!

"It's slower than you normally would, actually, precious. I'm holding you back while you get accustomed to things." 

Oh, my Porthos, my Porthos, is it done? I feel you *holding* me, deep inside, so *warm* —

"I'll always hold you —" 

Aramis croons more and puts his hands on Porthos's shoulders, licks his Porthos with his long tongue, licks and licks and licks — 

Porthos laughs and play-growls — 

Lifts Aramis up off the bed — 

Carries him across the room — to the wall-mirror, whose frame is carved with many trees. A great forest!

Porthos sets him down on his feet — 

Aramis reaches out to touch the carvings and — does not look. 

Not yet. 

Not yet. 

"It's all right, precious. At your own pace." 

Aramis rumbles and — I think my Porthos — I think your parents were gentle with you and your siblings *all* the times when they were not ruthless. 

"They absolutely were. That's how they work. I think it made the ruthlessness sink in more." 

But the gentleness! My Porthos is soft, kind, warm, *sweet*!

"Right, I'll take that. But really, precious, I've just never wanted to be an arsehole. And my packmates have all taught me wonderful lessons about how to *avoid* that." 

All of them, my Porthos? 

"*All* of them, in one way or another. You can learn a lot by watching and seeing what hurts another person and making sure *you* never do it to *anyone*." 

It occurs to Aramis, then, that all of Porthos's pack is now telling Mother stories about Porthos — that she is *learning* Aramis's mate through the eyes of others — and deciding for herself how well they are capable of seeing him. 

For Aramis... 

For Aramis, it is nothing but reassuring. 

"Yes, precious?" 

Yes, my Porthos, Aramis says, and turns to the mirror with a deep breath. My mother, my good mother, she will learn what *I* have learned — and more. She will see what *I* have seen — and more! And she will see that my Porthos, my mate, my *man*, is *all* that he should be and *more*. 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles. "Anything you need, precious love. Everything you *want*." 

I... 

"Mm?" 

Tell me my eyebrows do not look terribly odd, Aramis says, and raises them. 

"Well, they're adorable, first of all —" 

But are they — 

"They're not odd. Look at mine," Porthos says, and shifts — 

Aramis studies Porthos's handsome face in the mirror and in person — 

His eyebrows are tan with just a bit of beige — 

There is actually very little of those colours on Porthos's big, perfect body. A little on his muzzle, a blaze on his chest like a horse, a bit on the tip of his tail and scattered throughout the very dark fur on his back — 

Perhaps the contrast is what makes his eyebrows look so natural? 

The cream of *Aramis's* eyebrows is repeated all down his belly, and on his tail, and on his hands and feet — 

Porthos shifts back to human-form and hugs him from the back. He is still taller, still *bigger*. "You're *beautiful*, precious. The most gorgeous wolf I've ever seen." 

Are there other wolves you've seen like me? 

"With your colours, you mean? Or your colour-*pattern*." 

Both! 

"Odile's colours are close to yours — her cream is a little more gold, and her brown is a little more red. Her pattern's nothing like yours, though. Uncle Reynard's colours are *nothing* like yours — he looks a bit like a *gigantic* fox *mated* with a werewolf —" 

I. 

"— but his patterning is close. The different reds fade around his belly and paws and ears. He's quite a handsome wolf." 

Are you attracted to —

Porthos coughs. "*Aramis*. He helped *raise* me — and you don't care one whit about that, right. Uh. Well. The way he and Daddy and the others talk about it — and they really do talk about *everything* — it at least *seems* like he'd be *really* great to mount." 

Yes?

"Yeah. He's ah. Wild. Wilder than the rest of us, in some ways. Daddy says he's mad as a cleric in a room full of independent thinkers —" 

Aramis yips — 

"Yeah, exactly. Reynard *never* argues with that. Or does anything but laugh and smile and toss his *hair*. He's got great hair." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully. Perhaps his Porthos will seduce this Reynard first — 

"*Oi* —" 

No, no, my Porthos, continue telling me how beautiful I am!

Porthos stares at him woundedly. 

Aramis laughs — and finds himself lolling his tongue and wagging his *tail*. 

"Oh, *really*." 

I...

"I think you're coming close to *earning* that spanking, precious." 

Aramis's cock *spits* slick, spattering the mirror. 

"Well. I see you like *that* idea." 

Aramis reaches down to *cup* his knot — 

Just gently — 

But the touch makes him *howl*. 

He — 

*PORTHOS*!

Porthos is laughing. "It's a *little* harder to keep your control in that form. And a *lot* harder to keep it in the full-wolf form." 

I. You have implied this. And said this. 

"Mm." 

Aramis looks at himself in the mirror again — 

Turns his head this way and that — 

Strokes his chest and belly — *and not his cock* — 

Porthos is still laughing softly. "My beautiful little pup. All of this will be second nature to you soon enough, I promise." 

Yes. Yes, it *will*. And Aramis thinks of his *human* hands — 

Thinks of his carefully-cleaned fingernails and the knife-scars on his knuckles —

His calluses — 

"Oh, there you are, precious...." 

He *concentrates* — 

"Breathe through it. Nice and slow." 

He breathes. 

"Close your eyes. That makes it easier at first." 

He does not *want* easy — 

"Then just breathe, slow and deep. Breathe like you will when I'm opening you for my *knot*." 

Aramis *grunts* — and breathes — 

And breathes — 

And breathes slowly, so slowly — 

He thinks of his *fingernails* — 

He *breathes* — and the shift comes with such shocking speed that he loses control of it *immediately* — 

He — 

"It's all right, precious, I've got you. Just breathe." 

He breathes — 

And Porthos guides him back into human-form. 

Aramis *frowns*. 

"Now, precious, don't *berate* yourself. People who are *born* werewolves need help with this." 

"Again? Over and over again?" 

"When they're *aroused*? *Yes*." 

Aramis blinks. "Oh." 

Porthos grins and caresses his cheek. "That's right, precious. It's like learning how to walk all over again once we start to mature. It was bloody horrible — especially because being aroused makes you *want* to shift." 

Aramis nods thoughtfully and walks into Porthos's arms. 

Porthos rumbles and lifts Aramis into his arms again — 

"My Porthos is teaching me patience *again*. He is truly a superior man," Aramis says, and nuzzles Porthos's wonderful beard. 

"My Aramis learns *everything* *beautifully*. I could teach you all day and all night." 

"I believe your cock might have something to say about this, my Porthos..." 

"Well... I didn't say *what* I would be teaching you..."


	17. They were dangerously low on moms.

There is a part of Claudette's mind which is only repeating the words — with varying levels of stridency — that none of this is *possible*. 

It is a *particularly* irritating part of her mind — she has done her best, over the years, to crush it like an *insect* — but she has come to the conclusion that the voice is part of the human condition, weak and bleating and flailing for solid ground. 

She has done her *level* best to teach her Aramis — her *Aramis*, never Julian again, never *anything* but Aramis, the name she had given him at birth to be *only* for his family and friends...

And the name he had chosen to make public. So be it.

She had taught him to treat voices like the one in her mind now as the weaknesses they are, and... 

He has done well. 

He had been placed in a situation that would leave nearly any young man *gibbering*, and he had risen above. He had made for himself a *home* among gentry, among Kingsmen, among... werewolves. 

He has friends, family, *teachers* for his wonderful *mind*. 

And he has a mate who will devote himself *properly* to him, forevermore. 

Aramis has secured his future — far better than Claudette could ever have done *for* him — and oh, it is sweet. 

So very sweet. 

But the voice remains. 

This, perhaps, has something to do with her own presence in this fine house deep in the heart of the city where whores are only invited for certain parties — and are then cordially invited to leave. 

It would be one thing if she had been asked to simply give her son away and quietly disappear like a good little mother, but...

She has been given, in this warm, book-rich study, a comfortable chair to sit in between Amina — *not* Madame de Tréville — and a positive giant of a man — another Kingsman — named Kitos, who had arrived with still another Kingsman named Reynard. 

*Reynard* is sitting at her *feet*, despite there being more than enough chairs for everyone in this study — the other children have been sent to work on their studies — and he and Kitos have been paying court to her all evening. 

They are not gentry, but they know how to pull on the manners of same — and they are more than welcome in the palaces. 

This is where they have arrived *from* this evening. 

Just now, they are both watching her closely to see if she needs anything, at all. 

Kitos has offered her more food, more wine, desserts — 

Reynard has offered her more comfortable chairs, pillows, a place closer to the roaring fire — these wolves like to be *warm*, it seems — 

(In truth, Claudette...) *Jason* says, within her mind, and she must grow accustomed to this — 

Yes, Jason...?

Jason hums and nods to her from across the room, where *he* is dabbling his fingers in the fire as if it is a decorative *pool*. (I am feeding Etrigan within me.) 

I see. And? 

(And I would be more than willing to *help* you grow accustomed to voices in your mind...) 

I will consider it. And? 

Jason grins — at the fire. (And this fire is for your comfort, Claudette — and mine. The wolves in this room are rather stifling in their human clothes.) 

Claudette examines the others. No one is *panting*, and no one is *sweating* — 

(It takes a great deal for them to sweat, and they train themselves not to pant overmuch in public.) 

Claudette winces — 

And Kitos and Reynard make unhappy noises. 

"Claudette, if you *are* uncomfortable in some way —" 

"*Tell* us, s'il te plait, we will fix it," Reynard says, and there is an honest, open plea in his olive eyes. 

The same plea is in Kitos's nut-brown eyes — 

And Treville and Amina are looking at her with curiosity and worry. 

(All of them wish your happiness and comfort, Claudette,) Jason says. 

Claudette *looks* at him. 

Jason smiles sharply and leans on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. "We do not, in fact, have everything we wish from your family." 

So. "What is left," Claudette says, leaning back in her chair, crossing her legs, and steepling her fingers. She tries not to wish for her desk. 

Treville growls. "This doesn't have to be *mercenary*." 

"Doesn't it?" And she raises an eyebrow at him. 

"*No*, mum," Kitos says, and rests his massive hand on the arm of her *chair* — gently. "Please." 

"S'il te — Claudette, as soon as we *smelled* you —"

"Fox-face, wait —" And Kitos moves his big hand to Reynard's shoulder — 

Reynard clicks his teeth shut — 

Flushes and turns *away* — 

Claudette narrows her eyes. "I believe I already made myself clear about how I feel about *incomplete* honesty."

Amina yips a laugh. "She *did*, brothers. You will not *ease* her into this like a maid you are trying to ease onto your *knots*." 

Kitos and Reynard blush *deeply* — and so does Treville. 

Claudette nods and looks to Reynard, who smiles ruefully. 

"Kitos and I, we have had many lovers, and we have made love to many people who were *not* our lovers. I..." 

Abruptly, Claudette believe she can see where this is *going*. 

(Oh, yes, you *can*.) 

*Jason* — 

(The question is... will you make him suffer through explaining it?) 

This is not — it is *not* — 

(I rather hope you do. It's *bound* to be entertaining.) 

Claudette growls —

Reynard blinks at her — 

Kitos and Treville look to Jason — 

And Amina yips and cackles. *She* knows *precisely* what has been being discussed. 

She, perhaps, can *smell* it — 

(Oh, most assuredly —) 

Claudette growls again — 

And Jason laughs, low and rich and amused. 

Treville stands up and smacks the back of his head hard enough to send him reeling — 

Jason snickers — but —-

"Better, Claudette?" 

"Yes, thank you, Treville," Claudette says, and smooths her skirts unnecessarily before folding her hands in her lap. She's surrendered her cool and distant affect already — she might as well admit it. She turns back to Reynard. "You believe I am... special to you." 

He smiles crookedly. It's markedly beautiful on an already-beautiful face. Any number of men — and women — looking for that sort of thing would pay a great deal of money for a night with Reynard, even with the scars on his cheek, and the obvious age in his *gaze*. 

This is not a young man. 

This is, perhaps, a man as old as Treville... hm.

Claudette raises an eyebrow at Reynard. "Will you answer." 

"Claudette, I will answer any and every question you have. It is only... I believe you *wish* to ask a more specific question than the one you did ask. Or to have me *answer* a more specific one, mm?" 

And that... 

Has her Aramis been asking pointed questions of these people?

Would he ever *not*? Claudette inclines her head. "Answer the more specific question." 

"Kitos, mon verrat, and I, we believe you are *our* mate." 

Claudette does not allow herself — anything. Instead, she turns to Kitos, who is smiling ruefully — and trying to quiet his personal *force*. 

He is succeeding very well at this, considering, but there is still an incredible *amount* of male seated beside her, covered with wavy black hair and bristling with *power*. 

He is not so naturally *pretty* as Reynard, but... no. 

No. 

This one....

"Kitos." 

"Yes, mum — Claudette?" 

"Do you wear your beard the way you do to hide your 'ugly' face?" 

Treville yips and glares at her — 

"*Dieu* —" 

The others only *look* — 

But Kitos smiles even more ruefully. "In the early years, yes. Though Fearless fell in love with my beard in *incredibly* obvious ways right away, and so did Amina, when she joined us. The beard's become part of me in... better ways than how it started." 

Claudette smiles. "Thank you for that, Kitos. Do you value yourself?"

He raises his bushy eyebrows. "I'm a Kingsman. I know how to read and write a lot better than half the nobles in this country. I was able to track down my blood-kin and take care of them — after they spent generations living in squalor. I have brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces — a *pack*. I have a *daughter* who wears another man's name, but who looks exactly like my mother, and who's already strong enough in wolf-form to toss grown men across the room." 

Every wolf in the room rumbles with obvious pride — 

Claudette raises an eyebrow. "It doesn't bother you that she has another man's name?" 

Kitos grins. "That man is the brother of mine you haven't met, yet, mum. Laurent — the Comte de la Fère. I think you know all about wanting your little ones to have the best possible lives?" 

Well, then. She inclines her head. "She knows you are her true father?" 

"She does, mum. Though..." Kitos frowns. 

Claudette raises an eyebrow. 

"The pack is the *pack*. We all have a hand in raising the children, because all of the children are *ours*."

Claudette turns to *Amina*. 

"It is true, Claudette," she says. "Even *I* am sometimes called away from home for Kingsman duties, such as when the King, the prince, or one of their men is taken ill. The fact that I *can* heal them in moments does not mean I am allowed to leave immediately. I must stay for days and days, observing and being observed... while the children live without me." 

"And *with* one — or more — of *us*," Jason says.

"C'est la meme chose for Marie-Angelique, Claudette," Reynard says. "She has many duties... ah... behind the scenes? And we have *all* taken our *duties* to this pack seriously." 

"And your bastards...?" 

Reynard inclines his head. "My brothers have none — and yes, they are certain of this. We *all* can know when one of our children is being carried by someone, no matter how distant the woman is from us." 

Claudette blinks — but. "*You* have bastards." 

"I have *sons* — two — and one daughter. All from before I was turned. My daughter decided that she did not wish to become a werewolf, but I was able to dower her well, and she has made *precisely* the marriage she wished to make — and a marriage we all approved of, as well. Her husband is a man of business, but not so greedy and small as the type can often be. He gets his hands dirty. He knows what the men and women who work for him *do*. And? He provides for my daughter and my grandchildren. My sons both decided to take the bite, and are now Kingsmen. They have a gift for languages, *unlike* their father, and so Henri often has them taking missions outside the country. I miss them." 

"We all do, brother," Amina says. 

And there are nods and rumbles of agreement — 

Kitos *shakes* Reynard's shoulder — 

And Claudette... considers. 

What are they asking of her? 

What do they want *from* her? 

Jason clears his throat. 

Claudette *looks* at him. 

Jason smiles ruefully. "Only this, Claudette: There is a way that you can get your questions answered without doubt or hesitation." 

Claudette cocks her head to the side. "And you are suggesting that it is *desired* by this pack that I take the bite." 

"I am, Claudette. Even were you not the mate of Kitos and Reynard —" 

Claudette raises a hand. "Have there been other instances of two wolves taking the same mate?" 

The room is silent.

Jason's smile is quirked. "Not among us, no. But the bite would allow you to take the matter up with the All-Mother with ease." 

This time, the silence is a weight.

Irritatingly, much of that weight is coming from Kitos and Reynard. From her *sense* of them. 

She turns back to them. "There is no curse on either of you." 

"Non." 

"No, mum." 

"What would happen if I only wished to accept *one* of you." 

They wince together — 

Share a look — 

And then turn back to her. Kitos smiles ruefully again. "We don't know, mum. It would almost certainly be..." He winces again. "But you can't let us make your decisions for you —" 

"I never would." 

Kitos *thunders* a perfectly incredible laugh — 

Reynard grins — "Ah, oui, this is the mother of the boy we have been hearing so much about," he says, and looks her over with hungry *heat* — 

Amina snickers and leans over to 'whisper' in her ear. "Take the bite, Claudette. Your son has already done so! Join him!" 

Claudette blinks again and *looks* at Amina — 

Amina raises her eyebrows — and then nods. "Ah, you did not remember that we are *connected* to our Porthos. We *felt* the moment when he made Aramis his own with his bite. We now feel *Aramis*, as well." 

Oh. "You are never *without* your awareness of your children."

Amina grins... wolfishly. "Never." 

"Very well. *Who* will bite me?" 

"Kitos," Reynard says, at the same time Kitos says, 

"Reynard should —" 

And then they look at each other and frown. 

Claudette *looks* at them. "You have been brothers for a very long time. *Close* brothers." 

Reynard's smile is wry as he pushes his long, red hair back over his shoulder. "Ah, oui. Laurent, he *scoured* the Army for men he thought would be worth turning. I thought he was mad and told him so —" 

Kitos laughs hard again. "Laurent brought him home to us immediately, and he was *right* to. I was twenty-three. Fox-face and Fearless were twenty-two. Laurent was thirty, and had just met — and married — Marie-Angelique, who was twenty-five or so. We were still a few months away from meeting Amina." 

And, at first, Claudette only takes the knowledge in. But then she *remembers* what her Aramis had told her about *Porthos's* age — 

And she feels herself blanch. 

"Mum?" 

"How... old are you now?" 

"Oh, now, mum, you should never sound hesitant —" 

"Oui, non, non —" 

"Tell me!" 

"Oh, well, I —" And Kitos runs his huge, thick fingers through his nearly-entirely black beard — 

There are only a *few* white hairs — 

"I'm fifty-five, mum —" 

Claudette blinks and blinks — 

Amina laughs *hard* — 

"Werewolves tend to live long, healthy lives, Claudette," Jason says. "Especially when there's magery to... help things along." 

"Ah, oui," Reynard says. "We only *act* like ridiculous children." 

"And then our children *scold* us for it," Treville says — 

"Oui, c'est vrai. Louis is going to inherit a pack of grim and violent *nursemaids*." 

Jason dips his hand in the flames again. "There is Odile..." 

"Oh, that's true," Kitos says, and smiles broadly. "She knows how to have a good time." 

Rumbles of agreement — 

And that — 

Claudette *forces* herself to *recover*. "Kitos..." 

"Yes, mum?" 

"What of your daughter?" 

"Selene? Ah, she's a wonder. But she's ambiguous about whether she wants a soldier's life. She likes softer things. *Finer* things. She's great at hunting, shooting, fighting, and everything else, but she's also great at things like organizing parties, and embroidery, and talking to the men and women of rank about things that make the rest of us glaze over and fall down. *And* she says she wants a lot of children." Kitos shrugs. "Who am I to deny her?" 

Amina laughs meanly. "Laurent will have to try harder to fill his armies with your relatives, brother." 

Kitos booms laughter. "Oh, his eyes every time Selene so much as *touches* a pistol! She tries so hard not to torture him, but she honestly *likes* to practice her shooting!" 

Claudette hums. "How old is she...?" 

"Thirteen, mum. Hair down to her waist. She's *not* looking forward to cutting it so she can wear it up like a fine lady." 

Claudette cocks her head to the side. "Forgive me, Kitos, but it's my understanding that Kingsmen *make* fashions." 

Kitos blinks — 

Booms more laughter — 

And Reynard tops off Claudette's glass of wine. "Perhaps you will give Selene the good news yourself, mm?" 

Claudette blinks *again* — 

Reynard grins wickedly. "You will be a wolf, Claudette. You will be one of *us*. And? Selene will be your responsibility."

That... is something she had not quite considered. 

Jason smiles *evilly* at her — and toasts her. 

"You have all decided that I'm to be trusted with your youngest children." 

Rumbles and nods. 

"What of the members of your pack who are not here?"

"They are listening, Claudette," Amina says. "And agreeing wholeheartedly."

Treville smiles warmly. "We love the way you raised your Aramis. We want your *parenting skills* in this pack." 

*Vehement* rumbles and nods. 

"I did not raise my Aramis for... pack life." 

"Claudette," Reynard says *firmly*, "by everything we have seen, both with our own eyes and through the eyes of our packmates, you have raised your son to be precisely the man he has most needed to *be*, while *also* raising him to know how best to protect himself." 

Claudette lifts her chin. "That is the *only* way to raise a child." 

Reynard grins. "Bien. We are in agreement. S'il te plait, tell us who shall be allowed the *privilege* of biting you." 

"'Privilege'...?" 

Kitos rumbles a growl. "It couldn't be anything less, mum. You don't know *us* — not well enough, not *yet* — but we've seen you through your son's eyes. And we've seen you through Fearless's and *Jason's* eyes. And you are beautiful." 

"Très belle, magnifique, what we *want*," Reynard says, and *he* is growling — 

His teeth are lengthening — 

His eyes are flaring a hot, swampy green — 

And Kitos's eyes are flaring a *dark* red. "This... it doesn't have to be us." 

Reynard *snarls* — and turns away. "It never has to be *us*." 

"But we want you, mum," Kitos says, and flares his nostrils. "We want you to be part of us. Forever." 

And this....

The truth is that she was already going to do this to be connected to her Aramis forever. 

There are other truths now. 

There are... 

They want her to be a part of their children's *lives* — 

(In truth, Claudette, they want you to *have* their children.) 

I. 

(They won't actually *lose* control were you to ask that question, but they will start to shift. Would you like to see *their* wolves...?) And Jason smiles at her. 

Kitos rumbles a laugh. "What I wouldn't give to know what you and Jason are talking about right now, mum..."

Aramis would never hesitate. She turns to both of them. "Jason would have me believe that the two of you wish me to *bear* children for you —" But she isn't finished getting the *words* out before there's a *hulking* red wolf panting at her feet — 

And Kitos is *gripping* the wolf after having *splintered* his *chair*. 

Amina is laughing *quietly* — 

Treville smacks Jason again — 

"This is useful *information* for her, amant — and I did *tell* her that they'd be affected." 

"Oh, you did? My apologies, then." 

Claudette — laughs. Just — 

Just laughs. 

She's *choking* through it, because not all of the laughs are entirely positive they don't want to be *yells* — 

But. 

She can *mostly* keep herself to the laughter. 

And, by the time she's calm again, so are the wolves at her feet. 

They are back in human-form, rueful — but not so rueful that they're hiding their hunger. This is entirely correct, and — 

And so is everything else. 

Claudette pulls up her sleeves. "I should say," she says, firmly, "that I have not *entirely* decided whether I am comfortable allowing any children of mine to be raised and educated by the pack as a whole, as opposed to by certain members *of* the pack." 

Treville and Amina rumble. "We will all," Treville says, "do our best to prove ourselves." 

"That's *right*," Amina says. 

Kitos and Reynard say nothing, only stare at her bare forearms with their gleaming eyes. 

She cannot — no. 

She will not force a choice on any of them. 

She does not need to, and she does not *want* to. 

She offers her left arm to Reynard and her right to Kitos. "Turn me," she says. "And then take me to see the All-Mother." 

Kitos caresses her with his huge, hard hand — 

Reynard *inhales* at the inside of her elbow — 

And when they bite her together — 

When they *take* her together — 

Claudette sees her future sprawled out before her like a feast — or a particularly good fuck.

She has always heard that werewolves had difficulty telling the difference.


	18. In which all that training and practice and euphemisming pays off.

Aramis straddles Porthos's thighs once he's back against the headboard — 

Presses *close* — 

Rubs his knot against Porthos's furry belly, oh, that's good, that's *good* —

Porthos laughs and licks his cheek. "I'll just bet it is, precious. Why don't you stop, though. Just for now." 

"What — what?" 

Porthos cups Aramis's arse. "It's time for your spanking..." 

"Oh! I will stop moving and be very still!" 

"Or..." 

"Mm? What is it, my Porthos?" 

"You *might* like a wild ride. Most of the people I've spanked in the past have liked things more controlled, but *you're* my mate. Everything's new with you." 

"Oh, my Porthos — I — I am not certain!" 

Porthos studies him for a long moment — and then nods. "Then be still — until I tell you different." 

"Yes, my Porthos!" 

"My precious baby... mm. Wait, get your arms around my neck — yeah, just like that. Here," he says, and spanks Aramis *hard* — 

"*Oh*!" 

And does it again — 

"Yes —" 

Again and again —- 

Aramis gasps and yips — 

'Too tense, loosen up a little bit."

"My Porthos, I will *move*." 

"It's all right to move a *little*. Better to do that than to be too tense. Trust me." 

"I trust you with everything, my Porthos! With all of me!" 

Porthos rumbles and rumbles and *bites* him — right on his cheek!

"*Nnh* — My Porthos will mark my face?" 

Porthos rubs and massages Aramis's stinging arse — 

*Licks* his stinging face — 

"Please, my Porthos —" 

"Only if you need it, precious. I'm —" And Porthos laughs ruefully. "I'll love every scar you get as a Kingsman. I'll *worship* every scar you get as a Kingsman —" 

"But?" 

Porthos licks his lips. "I won't be able to give you scars everywhere, precious. I need you..." Porthos takes a deep breath. 

"Smooth and pretty?" 

Porthos laughs hard. "Precious, you'd be pretty if you were absolutely *covered* in scars. No, I... I just need to *choose* where your scars go. And I don't *think* I want any on your face." 

Aramis rumbles. "Yes, my Porthos. You will choose," he says, and nuzzles his beard, the side of his face — 

Nips his ear — 

"You will choose all things for us," Aramis says, and licks and licks and licks — 

Porthos laughs again. "You're not going to choose *anything*, precious...?" 

Well... "I may, from time to time, *help* my Porthos to choose things for us." 

"I *see*," Porthos says, and squeezes Aramis's arse *hard* — 

"Ah! No?" 

"*Yes*. I *need* my little precious to help me, and show me what's *best*." 

"Oh, but —" 

"I need my little precious to make sure I make the *absolute* best choices for us all the *time*." 

"Oh, yes, oh, yes —" 

Porthos pants. "I need more." 

"Of what? Please take!" 

"How about, instead of a spanking, I do *this*," Porthos says, and *spreads* Aramis — 

And rubs at his *hole* — 

So rough — 

So *hot* — 

"Oh, Porthos!" 

"Yeah, you like that..." 

"Yes, please!" 

"I'll do *this*... and you tell me secrets." 

"I —" 

"I promise to tell secrets right back," Porthos says, and grins — 

Aramis *blushes* — 

Clenches — 

Blushes *harder* when he realizes just how *obvious* it was to Porthos that he *had* clenched — 

"That's right, precious. Why don't you tell me what got you hot enough to clench..." 

"I want your secrets! All — all of them!" 

Porthos rumbles. "*Good* boy," he says, and rubs in a *circle* — 

"*Ai* —" 

"Here's one: When you walked into that tavern, I *didn't* lose my mind, but that was because I couldn't smell you right away. You were the most gorgeous boy I'd ever seen, but I didn't *know* for certain that it would be *necessary* to get you into my clutches." 

"And then — and then you *did* smell me?" 

"That's right. And I knew everything, precious. And I pulled on the hardest mask I had so I didn't give everything away — because I could tell what sort of man Julio *Ortiz* was by the way you and the servants smelled and *acted* around him. I had to get you *away* from him, but I had to do it in a way that — hopefully — wouldn't lead to me just tearing him apart." 

Aramis makes a helpless noise. "Already you wanted to do this for me!" 

"I could smell that he'd *hurt* you." 

"Oh, my *Porthos* — I was yours!" 

"Not yet," Porthos says, and rubs *hard* circles — 

"Unh — *unh* —" 

"But I meant to *make* you mine." 

"Oh, yes!" 

"Tell me a secret." 

"I dreamed of belonging to someone! To — to — when I would *fuck* myself. I dreamed I was being *used* by the man who *owned* me." 

Porthos growls and bites Aramis's *throat* — 

"*Yes*! Aramis pushes back against Porthos's circling *fingers* — 

Porthos bites *harder* — 

"Please, yes!" 

Porthos pulls back — "I dreamed of you every *second* I was fleecing Ortiz. How I would introduce myself to make you realize I was a good bloke. How I would convince you to let me heal you. What your scents might be like when you were happy and not in *pain*. What your scents might be like when you were as aroused as *I* was —" 

"You were *aroused* while you were playing with him?" 

"You have to learn how to *concentrate* if you're going to be a sharp, precious —" 

"*Why* did you learn how to be a cardsharp?" 

"When I'm just another piss-pants noble when you get right down to it, you mean...?" And Porthos grins at him, showing his tongue. 

Aramis blushes — 

Porthos rubs his hole *hard* — 

"Oh — *yes* —" 

"That's more like it, precious..." And Porthos licks him all over his face — 

"Oh, yes, Porthos, yes —" 

"Mm, I — *mm*. Precious *baby*. You make me so *hot*." 

"My Porthos makes me *ache* —" 

"Yeah? Here?" And Porthos rubs a *light*, *ticklish* circle — 

"Ai — do *not*!" 

"No? All right, then," Porthos says, and licks Aramis's mouth. "My apologies, precious." 

"No, no, my Porthos can tickle me, but not *there*." 

"But do you *like* it?" 

"I have enjoyed it! Mother tickles me when she feels playful." 

"Right you are. But I was going to answer your *question*," Porthos says, and *massages* Aramis's hole — 

Aramis moans and *arches* — 

"You like that..." 

"Please — please —" 

"We work with regular Army from time to time, precious — sometimes for months at a time," Porthos says, and massages hard, hot, *slow*.

Aramis shivers and *whines* — 

"We've learned a lot from them, and they've learned some from us, too. Not *all* of that education was *military*," he says, and does — *something* with his power — 

His fingers are suddenly *dripping* with *oil*!

"That's right, precious baby. And you're going to take them." 

Aramis *clutches* Porthos's strong, big arms and whines more, *rocks* against his cock — 

Aramis can't stop himself from *rocking* — 

He wants so *much* — 

"You want my fingers?" 

"To start!" 

Porthos laughs and pets Aramis's hole with his *slick* fingers. "Tell me another secret." 

"I — I — I liked the carved toys!" 

"The ones that were a little rough in your pretty little arse?" 

"Yes, please!" 

Porthos rumbles and pushes *in* with two fingers — 

Aramis *howls* — 

"Oh, *precious*, I... mm. I *was* going to make you tell me another secret, but —" 

"Please! *Please*!" 

"Hold on *tight*," Porthos says, and starts to *thrust* — 

Starts to — 

To *fuck* — 

To fuck him so fast, so easy, so *sleek* — 

Aramis opens his mouth to call Porthos's name and *howls* again — 

"Precious baby, you were *made* for this," Porthos says, and licks him, nips his cheeks, slips his tongue *deep* — 

Crooks *up* — 

Aramis howls messy and *loud* around Porthos's tongue — 

Porthos rumbles a pleased laugh and licks him all over, *rubs* Aramis's pleasure-button once, twice — 

Aramis *sobs* — 

Bounces — 

*Howls* again and *rides* Porthos's fingers, rides them fast, *fast* — 

"Oh, *yeah*, precious," Porthos says, and his eyes are wild, gleaming, hot — 

He's smiling — 

He's letting Aramis *take* him!

Aramis smiles and yips and yips and yips — 

And then Porthos starts *fucking* him again — 

Fucking him in the opposite rhythm to Aramis's *bounces* — 

Aramis *screams* a howl — 

Clenches and *shakes* — 

*Claws* at Porthos's shoulders — 

"Oh, baby, oh, baby, you can do it, you can do anything you *need*," Porthos says, and fucks him *harder* — 

Aramis flexes open and *wails* — he can't *stop* bouncing — 

"Fuck — *fuck*, I need you, I need you, precious, I'm going to fuck you so *hard* tonight —" 

Aramis chokes and bucks and wails *again* — and spurts all over both of them — 

"Oh, that's good, baby, that's so good, that's perfect, I love you so *much* —" 

"My — my —" And Aramis *sobs* and buries his face against Porthos's neck — 

He is still *spurting* — 

His knot is making it *hurt* — 

Hurt so *incredibly* — 

So — 

"Oh, shh, shh, that's my precious, my precious and beautiful *baby*," Porthos says, stroking Aramis with his dry hand and fucking him *slowly* with his other fingers. 

"Oh — my *Porthos*!" 

"Right here, right here for you, precious, oh, you did so *perfectly*," he says, and slows down, and keeps petting — 

Keeps stroking — 

Licks him and licks him — 

Aramis sniffles and licks him back — 

Hugs him tight — 

Clenches and *croons* — 

"Oh, precious... that was perfect..." 

"It — it... yes? Even though it was quick?" 

Porthos pushes him back enough that they can see each other clearly and grins broadly. "It was amazing. The way you were riding me?" Porthos rumbles and shakes his head. "If that had been my cock I would've had to work *hard* not to spend." 

"Oh — *Porthos*! You have had many lovers!" 

"And none of them have been you, precious. None of them have been my beautiful, perfect, gorgeous, sexy mate, riding me like there's nothing he would rather be doing in the *world*." 

"There *is* nothing! There *was* nothing! Please — please *more*." 

Porthos licks the tears from Aramis's cheeks. "So soon?"

"Please, my Porthos, I want to ride you *more*. I want to ride you *better*." 

Porthos shivers. "I can't say no to that, precious...." 

Aramis beams and squeezes his Porthos *tight*. 

"Of course, the only way you *could* ride me better is if you *were* riding my cock —" 

"Let me do this thing now!" 

Porthos laughs and licks Aramis's mouth again — 

"Mm —" 

"More stretching, precious. Because you're *not* getting my cock *without* getting my knot." 

"Ohh — yes, *please*. This is proper!" 

Porthos stares at him hungrily and starts to fuck him *slowly* with his two fingers — 

Aramis shivers and takes his fingers, takes his rhythm —

"That's good, precious, that's —" Porthos rumbles. "Other people could have my cock without my knot, you know." 

Aramis blinks — but. *He* has a knot now, and the thought of even stroking himself without *touching* it — 

Perhaps only *teasing* it — 

"You did not need those people as much as you need *me*." 

"That's just right, precious. That's —" Porthos growls and pushes *deep* — 

"Ai — mm — *yes* —" 

"There may *come* a day — far in the future — when we don't have time to get you knotted but we still need to get you *fucked*... and I *might* be able to do it." 

"Oh, no!" 

"I'd suffer for it. Abominably —" 

"As you should!" 

Porthos yips a laugh — "*Precious* —" 

"You should never *tease* your mate with your knot, my Porthos!" 

"No, eh? What about yours...? Do you know what you want to do with it, yet...?" And Porthos starts fucking him *faster* — 

"I — I — what is *proper*?" 

Porthos growls. "What we want. What we *need*," Porthos says, and *crooks* — 

Aramis whimpers and bucks — 

Rides faster — 

Whines and rides and rides — 

"Oh, precious baby, that's right, that's — rrrn. You're going to be ready for another finger so *soon*," Porthos says, and starts fucking him again. 

Aramis smiles and clutches — 

Fucks against Porthos's thick cock, hard cock, *wet* cock — 

"Need you, precious, need you *just* the way you are..." 

Aramis gasps a laugh — "I think — I think my Porthos needs me a little more *open*!" 

Porthos rumbles and laughs and *crooks* again — 

Aramis *croons* and licks Porthos's face, beautiful *face* — 

"Oh, precious, *precious*, just keep *riding* —" 

"Yes! *Yes*!" 

Porthos bites his *throat* again — 

Aramis screams a howl and bucks and bucks and — 

He feels himself leaking so *much* — 

Making his Porthos even more *wet* — 

He wants to *taste* — 

(Not *yet*, precious. *Ride*.) 

*Yes*! And Aramis swivels his hips and *grinds* down on Porthos's fingers — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

Aramis *gasps* for the way it seems to make Porthos's fingers go *deeper* — 

He grinds again — 

Again and *again* — 

He flexes open and *whines* — 

He needs — 

"You need *more*," Porthos says, stilling him with his grip on Aramis's right hip — 

"Please — oh, yes, please, give me your thick *fingers* —" 

Porthos growls — 

Nips Aramis all *over* his face — 

Aramis whimpers and whines and *tries* to buck — 

His cock is jerking and leaking so *much* — 

He can smell them both and he is *salivating* — 

"Oh, precious *baby*. You need this just as much as I do..." And Porthos sounds *wondering* — 

"Why —" But. Of course it is strange to him. 

Porthos has needed Aramis like nothing else for *days*, while Aramis has made him *wait* — 

Aramis whines and licks and licks — 

"Shh, shh, baby, you needed to get to *know* me —" 

"I need you! I need you so much!" 

"Yeah. You do. And we... oh, precious, we *love* each other," Porthos says, and smiling at him with hungry joy — 

Joyful *lust* —

Aramis shivers and whines and whines and *clenches* — 

"Oh — fuck, little precious, don't do that. I won't make you wait," Porthos says, and presses the tip of his third finger to Aramis's hole. "Open for me. Open nice and wide." 

"Please, please —" 

"Open for your mate. Let me have you —" 

"Please, my Porthos is so much, you are so *much*!" And Aramis needs to say — 

There is so *much* to say, so much to *express* — 

So much for his Porthos to *know* — he *must* know!

"What must I know, mm?" And Porthos is *teasing* him with the third finger — 

"Ungh — my *Porthos*!" 

"What do you need me to know? What do you need to make it just perfect?" 

Aramis blushes and clenches tight, tight — 

*Croons* and tries to ride — Porthos will not *let* him — 

He — 

"You have to tell me, precious. You have to tell me everything..."

Oh. "That. That is proper?" And Aramis stops trying to ride, stops — he pulls back enough to meet Porthos's gaze — 

To — 

His face is shining with sweat, and so is his massive, perfect body — 

Aramis wants to *taste* — 

"I want to lick you all over, precious... and I will —" 

"Oh, my Porthos!" 

"But tell me. I can *feel* that there's something you need from me, and I can't let that stand. *That's* not proper." 

"No — no —" Aramis leans in and licks the corners of Porthos's plush mouth — 

"Sweet baby, you can tell me. You *will* tell me." 

"Yes, my Porthos. My *mate*." 

Porthos rumbles and *pets* him with his free hand. "Go on. At your own pace." 

Aramis blushes... and smiles. "My Porthos, my *mate*, will give me everything I desire. Everything I *need*." 

"That's right. You'll want for *nothing*." 

Aramis rumbles and cups Porthos's face — 

His beautiful face — 

Strong and wise and giving and *adult* — Aramis has always known he would need someone older!

Porthos flares his nostrils and raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis rumbles more and *pets* Porthos's eyebrows with his thumbs. "My Porthos. I... have another secret..." And he blushes — but does not look away from his Porthos — 

His beautiful and powerful Porthos. 

His Porthos who teaches and guides so *patiently*. 

Porthos inhales sharply — and rumbles a growl. "I think I know what that secret is, precious..." 

"Yes? Yes? Do you like it?" 

"I do. I —" Porthos's cock jerks *violently* between them — 

He winces with *lust* — 

"Precious baby, I — wait." 

"Yes? My Porthos —" 

"Shh," Porthos says, and brings his free hand to Aramis's face, cupping his cheek and stroking so gently, so *gently*. 

Aramis whimpers with *need* — 

"Oh, precious, it's all right, I promise. I just need you to call me *what you need to call me*." 

Aramis *yips*, helpless and loud, but — "What is *proper*!" 

"What we *need* is proper, precious. What we *both* need." 

Aramis opens his mouth —

"And what *I* need is to hear you..." Porthos growls and pushes his hand into Aramis's hair — 

*Grips* Aramis's hair so tightly — 

So *wonderfully* — 

"Please!" 

"I need to hear my precious baby call me by the *right* name." 

"Oh — *oh*..." And Aramis searches Porthos — he cannot help but do this! — but... 

Everything is heat. Everything is pleasure, and pleasure in *him*. 

Everything is *need* for him to have what *he* needs — because that is the proper thing, that will make things better — 

More proper — 

Aramis rumbles and croons — 

"Say it, little precious. Say it and make me..." Porthos growls and gives himself a little shake even as his cock jerks and *jerks*. "Say it and make me ache for you even more than I already *do*." 

"Oh, *Papa* —" And then Aramis shuts his *teeth*, because he hadn't meant — 

Not to say it like *that* — 

Not to say it so — 

But Porthos is growling so low, so hungry — 

Porthos's eyes are *gleaming* — 

Porthos's *teeth* are lengthening — he snarls and *stops* them, pulls his shift *back* — 

"My Porthos —" 

"*No*. Say the right *name*." 

Aramis's cock *spasms* — 

His belly *drops* — 

He *clutches* his Porthos's face — "Please, Papa, please tell me it's all *right* —" 

"It's *perfect*," Porthos says — *growls* — 

Bites the *front* of Aramis's throat — 

"Ai —" 

(Say it *again*.) 

"Papa! My Papa! I want you to be my Papa!" 

(I *am* your Papa. I always —) Porthos growls again — 

Pulls *back* — 

Looks *into* him so *hungrily*. "Precious. Do you want it all the *time*." 

"I!" 

"You don't have to make up your —" 

"Please, Papa, do not let me *go*," Aramis says, and he's blushing, shaking, *fighting* himself — 

And then, just that quickly, he is on his *back* — 

Porthos is *above* him — 

Porthos is licking the slick and spend from his belly — 

Porthos is growling and nipping him and — (Precious... I think I told you to call me by the right name,) he says, and licks all the way up to Aramis's throat before licking his *face* and then shrinking his tongue and staring down *into* him again. "Show me I'm your Papa." 

Aramis hears himself make a *guttural* noise — 

Another one when Porthos — when *Papa* — *presses* on his hole with all three slick fingers — 

Dripping *fingers* — 

Aramis whines and spreads his legs for his Papa, offers himself, *gives* himself — 

Papa rumbles. "Good boy..." And he massages Aramis's aching hole — 

Aramis arches and *begs* — 

"Shh. You tightened up a little while you were worried that I wouldn't *want* to be your Papa. As if anyone who wasn't mad could reject *you*." 

"Oh, *Papa* —" 

"That's right," Papa says, and does that same *thing* with his power — more oil. He pushes back in with two — 

"Yes! Yes!" 

"Mm. Take me, precious..." 

"I will!" And Aramis plants his feet — 

Curls his toes — 

*Clutches* at the duvet and *wants* — 

Papa smiles at him. "My precious — mm. About that." 

"Yes? Yes?" 

Papa thrusts — 

And thrusts — 

And thrusts *fast* — 

Aramis croons and rolls his head on the pillow — 

Tries not to *clench* — 

Tries to just *take* — 

"Good *boy*," Papa says, and slows down again!

"Papa, no, no!" 

"Shh, just for a moment. You have to tell your Papa if there's anything special I should be calling *you*." 

"Everything you call me is special, Papa!" 

Papa rumbles — 

Crooks — 

"Yes!"

Starts to thrust faster again — 

"Please, *please* —" 

"You like all my names for you, precious baby?" 

"Please don't stop using any of them!" 

Papa exhales with a shudder. "I want you. I need you. You drive me *mad*," he says, pushing a pillow under Aramis's arse and then spreading Aramis with his free hand — 

"Oh, please — please —" 

"Just a little more..." 

"Yes, Papa, I will be *good* for you!" 

"You're *perfect*. I *love* you," Papa says, and *fucks* him with his two fingers, fucks him hard, fast, *hot* — 

So *hot* — 

Aramis croons and *leaks* all over his belly — 

All over the *bed* - 

He feels so loose, so open, so — 

And then Papa *crooks* his fingers again — 

Aramis *howls* — 

Arches and *howls* — 

And he's not back down again before Papa is pushing in with a third finger — 

Pushing — 

*Stretching* him — 

"That's just right, precious. Have you ever taken a toy this big?" 

"N-no, Papa! I'm sorry!" 

"Shh. You didn't know your Papa would be so big, now did you?" 

Aramis groans and tries to *drive* himself back on those fingers — Papa stops him.

Holds him *still*. 

"Please, Papa!" 

"I'll let you ride again soon enough, baby. You just have to wait a *little* while." 

"I do not — my Papa must not wait so long for *me*!" 

Papa rumbles and grins. "Every *second* of this is perfect for me. You're exactly what I want." 

"Even though I'm not ready?" 

"I get to *make* you ready, precious. Just for me." 

Aramis moans and spreads his legs as wide as he *can* — 

"Good *boy*. Here," Papa says, and pushes deeper — 

So much *deeper* — 

His fingers are so *thick* — 

So *big* in him! 

"It's Papa's *responsibility* to fill his baby boy right up..." 

"Oh —" 

And Papa pushes *deeper* — 

"UNH —" 

His fingers are all the way *in*!

Aramis is crooning and *sweating* — 

Aramis is *writhing* and *arching* — 

He is so *full*!

"I'm going to make you more full than this, precious..." 

Aramis grunts and clenches — 

*Howls* — 

"Oh, *precious*... yeah. *Right* now," Papa says, and starts to *rock* his thick fingers, his big fingers, his slick and rough and perfect — 

Aramis chokes on his howl and *sobs* — 

"Oh, precious, precious, you can take it..." 

"Yes — yes, Papa!" 

"Look how your cock is jerking for this..." 

"Yes — I —" 

"You're dripping slick like a little fountain, precious..." 

"Please, I'm so hot, so —" 

"You've *needed* something nice and thick up your perfect little arse..." 

"NNH —" 

"You've needed to *take* something thick, bend right over for it, give yourself... oh, precious, I'm *aching* for you." 

"Please take! Please *take*!" 

"That's just what I'm going to do, once you're good and ready for me," Papa says, and rocks his fingers *faster* — 

"Ahn —" 

"You like that, baby?" 

"Yes, Papa, yes!" 

"You like your Papa working you wide open?" 

Aramis grunts and *clenches* — 

And Papa leans in and sucks Aramis's *knot* — 

Suckles it and *nibbles* — 

Aramis gasps and gasps and *howls* — 

Flexes *open* — 

(*Perfect* boy...) And Papa starts fucking him *faster* with his fingers — 

So — 

So much *faster* — 

He does not stop *nibbling* and *suckling* — 

Aramis can't hold in a *scream* — 

He's bucking — 

Trying — 

Trying to fuck Papa's *face* — 

His beard is so soft on Aramis's *balls* — 

His teeth are so — 

So — 

Aramis howls and arches, tries, tries to push his entire knot into Papa's *mouth* — 

(Is that so, baby...?) 

"P-Papa –" 

(You know your Papa *has* to give you what you *need*,) Papa says, pulling back and swallowing Aramis's cock — *including* his knot!

Aramis howls *desperately* — 

Fucks in-in-*in* — 

He can't *stop* — 

Papa fucks *him* in the same *rhythm* — 

Aramis is so hot, so hungry, so *needy* — 

He's *clawing* at the duvet with his fingers and toes, and the only reason he's not shifting is because Papa is holding him — 

*Keeping* him — 

Papa is so strong, so controlled, so — *big* — 

Papa rumbles and rumbles around him and crooks all three fingers — 

Aramis screams a howl and *beats* at the bed — 

He will *spend* soon — 

He can't — 

Papa is sucking, slurping — 

Papa is letting Aramis *fuck* him — 

(My little precious is doing me just right...) 

Aramis sobs and bucks off-rhythm — but Papa never stops fucking him, never stops taking him and mouthing him and licking him and pressing his soft lips to Aramis's *knot* — 

Aramis shakes and sobs again — 

*Again* — 

Clenches *hard* and doesn't know how to open himself, doesn't know how to be *good* — 

(You're perfect,) Papa says and fucks him so hard, so *hard* — 

Aramis croaks — 

Whines — 

"*Papa*!" 

(You can take it. And you will.) 

"*Fuck* —" 

And Papa is laughing evilly inside their souls, Papa is *fucking* him open, Papa is being *ruthless* with his fingers, with his lips and *tongue*, and all Aramis can think — 

Soon it will be his cock.

Soon I will have *all* of him. 

Soon I will truly be *his* — 

Papa *snarls* around him — 

Aramis gasps and *jerks* — 

(You'll never be *anything* but mine!) 

"Oh, Papa!"

(Spend for me!)

"Please, please — give me your *cock* first!" 

Papa growls hard and loud — 

Aramis shakes and *clenches* again — 

But then Papa pulls back and looks Aramis over with narrowed eyes, *hot* eyes — "I can't say no to that..." 

Aramis *beams* — 

And Papa grins. "My precious boy.... here," he says, and *rubs* at Aramis's pleasure-button once — 

Twice — 

Over and *over* again until Aramis is crooning and whining and clutching the duvet, clawing at it again, *aching* — 

Flexing open — 

And not realizing that Papa was preparing to pull *out*. 

Aramis is *empty*! He sits up — 

Papa pushes him back down — 

"Oh —" 

"*Just* a moment, precious," Papa says, wiping his hand with a linen —

Moving Aramis's legs over his own thighs — 

Oiling his *dripping* cock — and knot — 

So big, so fat — 

Aramis is *clenching* again — 

Papa is rumbling — "Does my precious baby want another chance to ride...?" 

"Please, Papa!" 

Papa growls. "Anything for you. Anything for *us*." 

"Yes!" 

"But it won't be long before I *have* to control things again. Do you understand?" 

"My Papa must always choose!" 

"Oh, precious... mm. Get up here. Get up here, arms round my neck — yes. *Yes*. Now kneel up... cant your hips... oh, my precious little boy knows just what to *do*..." 

"Mother taught me!" 

Papa nods. "That's proper. Daddy taught me all *sorts* of useful things. Like this," he says, and grips Aramis's right hip and buttock again — 

Spreads him — 

And guides his cock in.

Oh, *in* — 

"My Papa is so hot!" 

"Burning for you —" 

"My Papa is so *big*!" And Aramis is shaking, clutching, licking Papa's *face* — 

"All the better to fill you *up*, precious, now don't move yet...." 

"I — I — my Papa is so — so *long*!" 

Papa growls and shudders all *over* — 

Stiffens and — 

He is *rigid* — 

"Papa?" 

"Your scents. Your voice. Your *body*. The things you *say*. Don't — don't say a word for just — a moment." 

Aramis *grunts* — 

Papa's cock *jerks* inside him — 

Jerks *massively* — 

Aramis bites back a whine as best as he *can* — 

And Papa clutches his hips. "Shh, baby, shh. Papa's got you..." 

"Mm!" 

"Papa won't. Won't ever *injure* you." 

Aramis shakes his head vehemently — 

"Now," Papa says, and *pulls* him down the rest of the way — 

Aramis *wails* — 

*Spurts* — 

Spurts all *over* his Papa, himself — 

It's all over Papa's beard, and he has to lick, he has to — 

He's still *wailing*, but he has to *lick* — 

"Oh, *fuck*, precious, I —" And Papa growls and *lifts* Aramis — 

Pulls him down *again* — 

Aramis *spurts* again — 

Papa *snarls* — 

And Aramis can't be still, can't — 

He has to move, has to work, has to *ride*. He *grips* Papa's shoulders, swivels his hips to make Papa loosen *his* grip — 

Papa *gasps* and does it — 

And then Aramis does it, lifts up — 

Feels that big, big cock *leaving* him again — 

It's almost too *much*!

He has to take it *back*!

"*Precious*!" 

He *slams* himself down and howls triumphantly — 

Papa *bucks* — 

Clutches Aramis's hips and pulls him closer — 

Holds him — 

*Holds* him — 

"Please, Papa, *let* me!" 

"*Shit* —" And Papa laughs breathlessly and eases his grip — 

"*Yes*," Aramis says and rises — 

Swivels and *drops* — 

Howls again and clenches and howls *louder* — 

Papa howls *with* him — 

Bucks and bucks and — does not stop Aramis from rising!

Up and up and up — 

Not so far he loses the tip — 

And then he *screws* himself down, clenching all the way, panting and shaking — 

Papa is *crooning* — 

Gripping Aramis's *arse* — 

"*More*, precious!" 

"*Yes, Papa!" And Aramis tosses his sweat-lank hair out of his face and rises just a little, clenches and bounces and bounces and — 

"Fuck, fuck, right on my *knot* —" 

"*Yes*, Papa, so fat, so hot —" 

"Do you *want* it —" 

"Fill me!" 

Papa snarls and *stops* him, holds him *still* again — 

"Oh, Papa —" 

Spreads him *wide* — 

"Yes, *please*!" 

"This — this will sting, some. But I'll *never* injure you —" 

"I know this thing! I am your boy, Papa!" 

"*Mine* — ah, fuck, I can't wait one second more —" 

"*Good*!" 

"Shh, hush, now, baby," Papa says. "I have to keep some control while I'm doing... this," he says, and starts easing his knot in — 

Starts — 

Oh, it's hotter than his cock! 

It's so big and round!

It's *throbbing* with his *pulse* — 

Aramis wants it, wants it *inside* him right *now*. He pushes back against it — 

"Oh, baby... you can do that, but I won't rush things."

"Papa —" 

"Shh. It'll feel like it takes forever *and* it'll be over sooner than you think," Papa says, panting against Aramis's ear and pushing more — 

More — 

Pushing so *slowly* — 

He *refuses* to let Aramis urge him *faster* — and Aramis's body relaxes because it *can't* hold its tension for so long. 

"There we are," Papa says, and pushes in *more*! 

"Oh, *Papa*!" 

"Shh, shh, give me your *arse*, precious..." 

"Yes, yes — *oh* — *oh* —" 

"Yeah. Yeah, it's *big*," Papa says, and he's gritting his teeth — 

Licking the sweat from Aramis's temple — 

"I can't stop now." 

"Please don't!" 

"That's my precious," Papa says, and pushes more, and more — 

Aramis shivers and shivers and *forces* himself not to stop pushing back — 

He *knows* it will be better once the largest part is inside — 

"My poor precious, my poor little precious," Papa says, and licks him and licks him. "We're almost there. You're doing so well." 

"I — I —" 

"Here," Papa says, and gives him *more* — 

"Oh... oh... that was the largest part!" 

Papa *pants* — 

His scents are so *high* — 

He *growls* — "That's — that's *right*. How are you." 

"Please give me the *rest*!" 

"*Yes*," Papa says, and *thrusts* — 

Aramis *howls* — 

Throws his head back and *howls* — 

And chokes on *another* howl when Papa bites the side of his throat, grips his hips, and starts to *fuck* him — 

Starts to — 

Aramis opens his mouth to call Papa's *name*, but a *sob* comes out — 

His cock is fully *hard* again — 

His knot *aches* — 

He is leaking and leaking and *leaking*, and he needs — 

Oh, he *needs* — 

(You need *this*,) Papa says, holding Aramis *still* by the hips and fucking up and in and in and *in* — 

So hard — 

So hard and — 

The thrusts are so *short*!

Papa's knot won't *let* the thrusts be long — they are *tied*!

(That's *right*, precious. You're not going *anywhere*.) 

Aramis opens his mouth to say something, *anything*, but all that comes out are croons, desperate croons, *ecstatic* croons as he wraps his arms tighter around Papa and lets himself be *ridden* — 

Fucked — 

*Taken* — 

Used?

(Is that what you need, baby? Mm? Does baby need to be used like a pretty little whore?) 

Aramis flushes hard and makes a *garbled* noise, deep in his *throat* — 

Papa bites him *harder* — 

His thrusts are constant, hard, so — 

Every last *one* of them *rams* against Aramis's pleasure-button — 

Aramis is so *hard* — 

Aramis is slick with sweat, aching for more of what he *has* — 

Aramis can't breathe, can't think, can't — 

(You can do anything you need to do, precious. You can *be* anything you need to *be*.) 

Oh, *Papa* — 

(Do you need to be *used*.) 

Aramis whines and clenches hard, tries to bury his face against Papa's throat, claws at Papa's shoulders — 

(You don't know....) 

I'm sorry!

Papa breaks the bite and licks him and licks him — 

Never stops *fucking* him — 

"We'll — *hrrn*. We'll learn *together*, precious." 

"Please! Please always *teach* me, Papa!" 

"NNH — fuck — oh, fuck, precious, the only thing you're going to learn right now is how hard you can make your Papa spend," he says, and laughs breathlessly, *happily* — 

Aramis is making him *happy* — 

"Fuck, *yes* — oh — come on, clench up again —" 

"Papa, I — you're so *big* —" 

"You can do it. And you *will*." 

Aramis's belly *drops* — 

He clenches and feels himself utterly stuffed, utterly *taken* — 

His eyes roll back — 

He feels as though he might *faint* — 

"Oh — oh, *precious* —" Papa snarls and bites his *shoulder*, breaking the skin — 

Aramis's eyes fly open as he *howls* — 

He clenches and flexes and clenches *again* — 

Papa fucks him faster — 

Harder — 

*Faster* — 

Papa laps and laps at the blood, heals him with his power — 

The power they *share*, and now Aramis can *feel* how much they share it, feel how much they're *bound* — 

(You're *MINE*!) 

"Yes, Papa!" And Aramis *reaches* with his power, reaches deep, and he did not have much training, but he knew how to *touch* his mother with his power, how to caress — 

He caresses his Papa — 

He caresses him all *over* — 

Papa croons and shakes and fucks him *hard* — 

So *hard* — 

Clutches him *tight* with his arms and *tighter* with his power — 

They are so close — 

They are *rutting* together, *crashing* together —

Aramis can't *breathe* — 

He beams and licks and licks and *licks* his Papa — 

Papa clutches him even *tighter* — 

Yips —

And howls like a *starving* beast as he *slams* in and — 

Oh, so hot, so *hot*!

His knot *pulses* as he fills Aramis — 

Aramis cannot help but *clench* — 

Papa howls *high* — 

Fills Aramis *more* — 

"Oh, Papa, oh, Papa, does it *ache*?" 

"It. It *hurts* *perfectly*," Papa says, panting and growling and biting Aramis's *cheek* again — 

"*Yes*, Papa!" And Aramis is wheezing — 

Papa pulls back and licks him — 

He does not stop *clutching* — 

He's shuddering — 

His cock is *spasming* inside Aramis as he spills *more* — 

It is perfect. 

Perfect. 

Aramis holds on tight with his arms and continues to caress with his power as Papa gradually calms. 

Papa shivers and smiles against the flesh of Aramis's throat. "My perfect... my perfect little precious..." 

"My perfect Papa!" 

"Here," Papa says, and arranges them until Papa is kneeling more perfectly upright and Aramis must sink down and down and *down* those last few hairsbreadths onto his knot. 

"Oh, Papa..." 

"We'll be more comfortable this way." 

"Not... lying down?" 

"I'm afraid not," Papa says, and smiles ruefully. "That'll really only work when I knot you from the back." 

And that makes sense. "You wanted my *face*." 

"I wanted to make love to my *mate* face-to-face for the first time."

"This is proper?" 

Papa caresses his cheek. "For me." 

"For other wolves?" 

Papa smiles. "It varies, precious. We have animal instincts, but we're not *completely* bound by them... and you already knew that." 

Aramis blushes. He did know this thing. But...

"Mm?" 

"I thought... I thought my Papa might wish to *give* himself to the animal inside him... more." 

Papa nods thoughtfully. "You're right about that. I *do* like to do that." 

"Yes? But not with lovemaking?" 

"*Sometimes* with lovemaking. I promise I'll tell you — and show you — everything." 

"Now?" 

Papa grins. "Right now." 

Aramis beams and prepares to listen *closely*.


	19. Meat, booze, and naked wrasslin'. Werewolf parties have a lot in common with rugby parties. I'm just saying.

On the night of the full moon, they're together as much as it's possible for them to be together, and Treville has had a self-satisfied smile on his face for hours. 

He's been smacked for it no less than four times, by three different people. 

The fact that *Claudette* had been one of the people — 

Well, that's even better. 

But now they're here, on the fallow fields on his estates just outside of Paris, and it's time to celebrate the new matings. 

Nothing formal — they don't *do* that, *and* it wouldn't feel right without everyone there. Reynard's sons are in Sweden of all places, Athos and d'Artagnan are on an intelligence mission in Spanish territory...

No, it's no good.

But the *rest* of them are here, including his utter whale of a first-born daughter. 

He ducks before she can smack him — her reflexes are just a little slower now that she's seven months gone — 

Thomas pounces and rolls him down the small hill, smacking him repeatedly while Treville coughs and laughs. 

Once Thomas lets him *up* — "You're getting *much* better at stealth, son." 

"Assassination work is useful for that," he says, and dusts Treville off, and then they both look to Jeannette —

Who truly is glorious — 

And smells wonderful — 

"You're not forgiven," she says, and crosses her arms over her swollen breasts. 

"I —" 

Thomas tackles him again, and between all the wrestling and laughter — the others eventually strip and join in, though no one shifts, in deference to Jeannette — 

And the near-catastrophe of the refreshments table being bumped — but thankfully *not* knocked over — 

Though no one would precisely *mind* dead leaves on their cold meat — 

And Laurent appears to be interrogating Aramis about brothel-life while holding him in a *headlock* — 

And Porthos has an ear to Jeannette's bare belly — 

And Marie-Angelique is wrestling with Lucien and giggling while he tickles her wonderful soft belly — 

And Reynard is chasing Odile around and *around* the table while Amina periodically *trips* Reynard — 

And Claudette is braiding Selene's hair — 

And Kitos is attempting to sneak up on Laurent with the help of Jason's shadows — 

At which point Laurent releases Aramis and yips the call to attention. 

Thomas stops smacking Treville almost immediately. 

Laurent beams at all of them like the madman he is. 

For a while. 

For a — 

Marie-Angelique clears her throat. 

Laurent hums. "As you say, wife. We have been blessed with two new sets of mates, and we will *soon* be blessed with a new cub. It would only be prudent to offer our gratitude and continued allegiance to the All-Mother, who, with our Jason's help, has made all of this possible." 

Claudette pushes a lock of her auburn hair back behind one ear. "How best do we do this?"

Reynard moves to her side with a glass of wine in hand. "Give Her our happiness. Our *joy*. Our love of this life that we have been provided, ma belle." 

Claudette hums. "I believe I can do this... though not with wine. Not for the next several months, anyway," she says, and rests a hand on her belly. 

Everyone stops — 

Lifts their noses —

And then they sing, sing to the moon, sing to the night, sing to the Mother who is the Mother of all. 

Whether this new development will pause, stop, or speed *up* Aramis's attempts to *adjust* the pack's sexual proclivities will remain to be seen — 

And Porthos certainly looks duly terrified by the prospect — 

For now... 

For now, it's time, only, for happiness. 

end.


End file.
